"She was a good friend of mine,
and every time I think about her
all I see is the lake we lived on in the summer
and all I smell is her dad's barbecue.
I hear the wind dragging the willow branches
into the water,
I feel the rain bounce off my skin
as we rowed to the island in the middle
of the lake.
She was a great girl,
and a wonderful woman.
I'll miss her every second of every day."

library books;
     the musty smell floods me with
     thoughts of its past readers
     did a girl like me
     run her finger across this line
     as i have?
     will our lines like vines
     ever intertwine?

rainy nights;
     while the tip-tap and dribble of
     droplets hit my windowsill,
     i imagine gusts of wind
     dancing with one another:
     carless and free
     and without destination

light touches;
     the accidental bump of elbows,
     the awkward entanglement
     of fumbling phalanges,
     a gentle squeeze of the hand,
     a comforting gesture that says
     “i am here.”

now reverie this:
     you and i,
     the spines of our books broken,
          our shoulders barely brushing,
               the sound of soft and subtle raindrops
          all things i adore in one simple
      and seemingly endless moment

books, rain, touches, and you

Pierrot stands in the garden,
Beneath a waning moon,
And on his lute he fashions
A fragile silver tune.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
He thinks he plays for me,
But I am quite forgotten
Under the cherry tree.
Pierrot plays in the garden,
And all the roses know,
That Pierrot loves his music,—
But I love Pierrot.