This isn't Paris, there are no lights here
But the stars that sit vulnerably above the dark streets at night.
Reflecting on the drops of rain that fall with no order filling the potholes and cooling the air.
Even the desert gets cold in December, and the cold makes everyone feel lonely.
So here's to the bowl of glitter on my desk.
The letters written that will never be sent.
The twin sized bed unkempt and cold by the window
And the lights that stopped working weeks ago.
To scarves that warm necks and hats that warm heads
While there's nothing to keep my heart from nervously pounding every time the dog barks at night.
Here's to coffee tasting and wrestling over the last brownie,
Friends that become lovers and lovers that stay friends.
The lamplight is dim but it's there all the same
And as long as my shivering hands can type I'll be writing these letters I'll never send.

I asked what's a home?
And she said
"a place where we know how to turn on the water."
And I thought maybe it wasn't my home.
So I'll go get some midnight coffee down the street.
And pretend there's no one back there to yell at me
Maybe then I can keep these words in my head long enough to write them down
Or maybe I'll get drunk craning my neck to see the stars
And realizing it's the lights of on-coming cars.
The streetlights in this town are too dim.
I think that's why there's no hope here anymore.

She can only say I love you so many times before
The words mean nothing anymore.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
I love.
I love.
I love.
I.
I.
I.
.
.
.
Meaningless.
Who feels love anymore?
She asks after one cider too many wrapped in a Christmas sweater.
Telling herself it’s barely November.
You’re a loser.
You’re a loser.
You’re a loser.
a loser.
a loser.
a loser.
loser.
loser.
loser.
Some words sting harder in college than middle school ever made them feel.
And some words linger longer than high school lasts.
*****.
Loveless.
Loose.
She starts another cider.
Pathetic.
Hated.
Failure.
Awkward.
And how about some wine now?
Wine?
Whine.
Win?
Gin.
Drink?
Drink.
It’s time to change herself
She decides this and it is.
And it always will be.
It is law.
It is law.
It is Law.
It is.
It is.
It is.
It.
It.
It.
Is the start of yet another person
With the same eyes but different hair
A different voice.
A new person.
A new person.
A new person.
Person.
Person.
Woman.
With value. Intelligence. Beauty. Grace.
Silence. Voice. Love.
January will be a new start.

'Tis better, they say, to have loved and lost than to have never
Truly
Loved at all.
To love in a way that fans a fire in your soul the likes of which no forest on earth, no volcano on mars
Has ever experienced.
And why love at all?
At the end of every path there's a giant elm tree sticking its bitter head out of the soft, white ground as you coast the ups and downs holding tightly to the reigns
Trying vainly to steer.
There's red in her hair.
And red in the snow beneath you. Around you. Inside of you. Coming from you.
Because.
'Tis better to risk your life to be with her forever than to live in the silence of creaking floorboards
With living martyrs wrapped in wrinkles and pale eyes always on you.
To die.
Together.
Because of love than to live with anything else.
Often you lose. But that's why it's a risk.

Never explain except for in love.
When you explain why you feel the need to exaggerate everything that makes you unique
And challenge those who challenge you. Fight those who beat you. Conquer those below you.
When you stand alone in front of the one and say I Am Who I Was Made To Be.
And perhaps explain who you are.
Why you're weird, grotesque, mature, immature, laugh, smile, cry, dream, write.
And that some people watch, some read, some write, some frown, some
Take the time to grow into cases the world lacks the capacity to withstand.
And maybe explain why you're content with this mediocrity that is laughing at yourself.
Singing loudly to empty rooms in a dark house with an off-pitch voice.
Walking the silent, cold streets with your head down arms closed around your chest.
Never excuse yourself for this.
Only explain that this is who you are and no person of worth can take that away.
And no person of worth will take that away.
They will embrace the surprises and the emotions and love.
Without needing an explanation.

I think I'm secretly just a white girl
With an infinity scarf and coffee with one pump of vanilla, cream and nutmeg.
Mooching off Dad's netflix account.
Pretending to be deep for likes.
And listening to music through my smartphone.
But something tells me it's not a secret.

Everyone wants to fall in love
But all I want is a pen and some tequila
And to remember every detail about the dream I had a couple of nights ago.
About a small ship in a big ocean
A castle with a maze of hallways.
Perplexing. Confusing. Invigorating.
Terrifying.
Then I can wake up and go to church,
Forget to check my texts again.
And wonder what it must be like to lose yourself in another person.
Then I'll write it down.