When I reached your door
I’d knock three times
And you called it my little “superstition”
Hoping each time I saw you
That it wouldn't be the last

From behind mullioned panes
Droplets of snow fall onto each other
Knitting together their fingers until
They are one.

Some uncertain moments
I cannot falsely contain
With only a basket
woven from metaphors.

Some unwearied feelings
Depart
before I can catch them,
Like a child clapping her palms
Reaching to intercept the path of a bumblebee.

These words sting my fingers, too
As I write them
the petals of paper droop,
Too laden with honey.

These dreams tickle my lips
But, I cannot speak them
They hold my hand, rub their fingers on my thumb
But, I cannot write them
They flower in the soils of my thoughts
And I reach out to pluck their petals, one by one
Only to find they have
Wilted too fast
for my idle touch.

He came at night and thought of me,
saw my happy.

Run home, boy
I am not the girl you play.
I am glowing
like magic.

You were in my dream last night
And Now
Every word I write
Is reminiscent
Of words you sighed
Into my skin.

I give myself
Mirror pep talks
To explain away
The way you stopped
and looked at me with words caught in your throat
Under the dimming bulbs of my parent’s porch

And I wish I could forget
Gentle as a sunset,
Your breath skimming my hands that night
Staining my skin under
Dying lights
And I can’t tell if I’m hurting right...