It meant a greasy burger from the diner on Main st.
A sweaty drive in that noisy ford
with ice cream melting in our laps.
It meant skipping prom
to watch Lord of the Rings on your mother's couch
and never once look at the TV.
It meant reading your favorite book,
and pulling up grass by the roots
to busy our hands
and keep them from wandering places they shouldn't.
Us was the color of the stars when we lay on our backs
examining the milky way
and tracing our names
in constellations.
It meant the arguments at midnight
about the purpose of our lives,
what it meant to be and to belong,
and why the world was no musical,
and no wasteland either.
It meant the only obstacles
were curfew
and your awful cologne.
We were the music on that record
you gave me that first night out
when you took me to the cinema
and when I got home
I spun the vinyl for hours.
We were the color of the rolling hills
in the pastures
when we listened to our favorite songs
and discovered kissing
while we waited for the school bell to ring.
It meant the light always shone
and the rain only fell
when we felt like walking in it.
And it meant that sooner or later
we had to learn what it was like
to be an 'I'
after 'Us'
And we had to learn
all over again
to live without a 'We'

Quite a few years from now,
my daughter will be twelve.
And all her friends will start
to think about things like
first kisses and winter dances,
and I know she will ask me
what my first love had been like.
And when that happens,
I'm going to smile
(though it may be bittersweetly)
as I remember
driving around aimlessly with you
singing along to bad radio stations
and exploring our town
to find the best local coffeeshops.
I'll remember nights
in our high school arts building
when nobody else was around
looking at the newest pictures
the photography class pinned up,
and how gentle you were
whenever our lips met.
I'll remember how no matter
how close you held me,
I always wanted it to be closer.
I'll remember exactly the way
that your favorite scarf smelled,
and the safety I felt
when you'd pull me into your arms.

I don't know what else will happen
between today and the day my daughter asks,
but whenever it is,
the answer to that question
will always be you—
so I want you to know
I can't thank you enough
for a story that makes me glad
I let myself fall in love with you.

I wonder if with every shot of fireball,
She tastes our cinnamon kisses on her tongue
I wonder if every time she hugs the toilet,
She remembers what my arms felt like wrapped around her
I know when she wakes up with no memory of the night before,
She also forgets the way I loved her
And how I always have

he will appear
he will be gentle
quiet
strong
and he will brush the hair off my face
with the softest sweep of his hand
he will look at me
the way you never did
as a delicate piece of glass
he so desperately wishes not to shatter
he will feel no shame
at the sound of my name
in the same sentence as his
and no embarrassment
at the sight of his hand in mine
he will wipe my tears
when i feel too much  
                                       (like i do)
and then you
will fade
from my heart

when you're a little girl
they tell you how
you're so pretty
with your messy little braids
and muddy mary-janes
but they never tell you
you're interesting
or clever
or good-humoured
as if you're useless
to be anything
but pretty
as if the world only loves
those with empty heads
and pretty faces
and that there is no
happiness
to be found
for one
with only
beautiful
thoughts.

"i think that it's
a cold day
for lemonade,"
i said
and he just shrugged
we were silent
but i didn't care
because when the
wind blew
he would still be
beside me

You wrinkle your nose, No
I laughed. ‘Why?’
‘It’s silly.’
‘Sillier than driving
In the middle of the night
To my house and
Pulling me away
To eat pizza and
Drink milkshakes and
Write poetry in our arms
And sing and scream
And driving into a
Miraculously open
Carnival?’
You rolled your eyes
‘I’d rather do a Holden Caulfield on you,’
Would that mean that
To you
I’m just...Phoebe?
I shot you a sceptical look
And told you that
One ride at a carousel
Won’t taint your
Masculinity.
I sure as hell hoped
That I convinced you because
I don’t want you to be Holden
If I’m just Phoebe,
I’d rather be Jane Gallagher even
If there wasn’t a scene in the book
Written for us.
I know that if I could be Jane,
We could write
Our own **** story
And our story would
Be better.
So please, please, please
Say yes
To going to the carrousel
With me
And we could start writing
Our story as Jane
And Holden.