One.* We started as complete strangers, meeting for the first time. I hadn't met an actual complete stranger for the first time in months.
Two. That night, I told you a story and you listened. A story about not being able to use the school computers because they were all taken. It was the stupidest story I had ever told. You listened anyway.
Three. Nobody ever listens to me anymore.
Four. I'm not done meeting you yet and I love that. We don't know much about each other, but we piece together a little more of the puzzle every day.
Five. My friends adore you this time. I can spend my Friday nights with both you and them. I don't need to choose.
Six. You call me kiddo, just like he did, but yours is different. He was condescending. You treat me like I'm worth just as much as you.
Seven. I'm not worth just as much as you. You're a lot better than me.
Eight. You're unbelievably sweet, even to the girl that nobody else talks to. If they aren't ignoring her, they're mocking her. Even I ignored her.
Nine. I don't have to try for you. Nothing is forced, nothing is overthought, nothing is poised or staged or planned. I could tell you anything in the world and not be worried about how you'd react.
Ten. I've known you for a month. It feels like my whole life.

please wait for me.
Save me a space
right in the center
where the mornings smell
like black coffee; and
the afternoon air
carries cigarette smoke
all the way up to my open window,
where Mason jars full of
loose change, paper stars,
and wanderlust sit;
and the romance after dark
twinkles just as brilliantly
as the city lights.

Dear New York,
don't stop listening.
My name is resounding everywhere,
from curtain calls on Broadway
to Madison Square Garden encores—
from the horns of taxicabs
to men in booths on street corners
that offer you half-priced dreams
and happy memories.

Dear New York,
keep your eyes open.
I'm in everything you see,
from statues in museums
to the architecture on every block,
from marks made in alleyways
with spray-paint cans or brushes
to fashion off the sidewalks.

Dear New York,
stay aware, of all of it.
You never know
exactly when
something like love
can open the door,
or hope can rise
from the remains of ruined towers,
or the train station underground
can mean a lot more than
traveling from Point A to Point B.

Dear New York, you're everything.
The silver lining
behind all my dark clouds,
the reason to keep trying
though the Midwest is enough
to make anyone give up.

Dear New York,
please wait for me.

Everything I hoped for
in what tonight would be
wasn't nearly as good as
everything it was.

It's been a long time,
as in since ever,
since I've been comfortable
around a person I've only just met.

But even if it's only been a week
of missing you and waiting
to be able to see you again,
it almost feels as if
I've spent my entire life
missing you and waiting
to see you again.

Because in your arms it felt
exactly how it does
after trying several different pieces
to see if they fit just right
into the square of the puzzle,
to finally find
the perfect match
that simply clicks
perfectly into place
and makes things more beautiful
than one piece alone could ever manage.

It's weird, but it almost feels as if
I'm still waiting
for things that happened
yesterday.
Because even though
I know I did them,
it's still a bit like
they never even happened.

(Because girls like me
don't kiss boys like you
on a daily basis—
let alone do boys like you
initiate it.)

And it almost still feels like
I'm caught in that dream, like
my world isn't shaking
in the same way my hands were,
and that you hadn't
made it so effortless
that I could relax right away,
and that you didn't taste
exactly like the weather did last night—
cool and exciting and a little bit
like something amazing
had just begun.

(Because boys like you
don't kiss girls like me
on a daily basis.
But I think I can get used to it.)