you dream of us.

long boarding to the beach.
having dinner with your dad.
discussing cheese preferences.
"Shredded."
"Sliced."

I dream of us.

making french toast.
syrupy kisses in the kitchen.
powdered cinnamon on your nose.
eggshells in the sink.

Not the kind that requires
Repentance.
Or 20 hail Mary's.

I feel like Oliver Tate
From Submarine.
You're Jordanna,
Reading through
The pages of my diary.

I want you to know
My innermost workings.

Would it hurt you somehow
If I were to say it?
Is it selfish of me to want to?

Tell me it's unconventional.

I know.

But so is breathing fire
And having a three legged dog.
And both make for a great story.

Our story would make for a great
Indie romance.
The kind where you don't cry
Until the very end.

Is the distance enough to soften the blow?

riffling through my old journals
I stumbled across some unsent letters I'd written.
You may not have read what I wrote
but I feel I still owe you an apology
for the nasty, hurtful things I said.

I was such a ****.
I can hardly believe I wrote them.
I don't want to believe it.

But maybe it's good that I don't recognize the girl I used to be.
Maybe it means I'm changing...

for the better hopefully.

I suppose I've forgotten my past
intentionally.

Ignorance is bliss?
in this case it is.

your* poem.
And how it inspired me to write that one poem.
and now this one.

I don't think you believed me when I said it was good.
But it was.
Usually I hate reading other people's work.
I guess that makes me a bit egotistic.
But every once in a while
I stumble upon something wonderful.

I reread it several times.
And probably will again after I finish writing this poem.
It was honest.
Most people are too afraid of what others will think to be honest
and therefore I find most of what I read to be lacking.
I used to be afraid too.

I've always stayed true to the first basic rule of writing,
Write what you know.
So this poem is about you.

he is Peter Pan
never aging.
the boyish upwards curvature of his mouth
is electric
and causes my skin cells to prickle.
he thinks my underwear is fun.
funderwear.
he's perfected the art of making insults seem charming.
and when we lie on the floor in the hallway,
our hair sprawled out on the carpet
his strands getting all tangled up in mine
I feel perfectly beautiful.
our hearts sync
as our noses touch.
Eskimo kisses.
He's a bottomless bag of peanut m&ms;
all green.
Wine stained lips
and a bitter tasting tongue.