You asked me to write
a poem that killed
all the parts of you
that make you love yourself less.
But darling, I don't
know if anyone's told you:
The things that make you
afraid to show yourself
make me love you
all the more.
And you may talk
about how much you hate
the bumps and ridges
splashed across your skin,
but you also talk
about how much you love
the mountains in Colorado.
Do you think that the earth
has ever cared
that it has drier parts
or areas with a little more texture?
Do you think that Nature
ever wanted to cover up
the parts of her that weren't perfectly smooth?
If the water stayed still,
and never rose or fell
the oceans wouldnt be quite so breathtaking
because waves would never crash.
And you might think you're covered in tsunamis,
disaster zones left in the debris of your disease,
but don't ever tell me
that a home in that aftermath
isn't still a home.
Because with or without the water damage,
the part that makes it important
is the things on the inside—
and no, I'm not referring
to things in a home anymore.
Now I mean your heart,
now I mean your passions and your past
and ever single word
written in the story of you.
So darling, you might tell me
that you hate the bumps on your skin,
but there is something amazing
spelled out in Braille
written on just the outside cover
of one of the greatest stories I will ever know.
The thing about Braille like yours is that
it can open the eyes of a blind man
without even needing any magic.
And the thing about book covers is
that you'll never really know
how much you love a book
based on the words on the outsides of it.
But darling.
I need you know know
I've read you cover to cover
and I absolutely think
your story is one of the most beautiful ones I know.
With or without the tsunamis or Braille.

I needed to know
if I had any power,
so I blocked off my heart
and found the fastest way into yours.
I got you to let me in,
and let you think my laughter
was about having you back
instead of about what it was.

It was about watching you care
when I knew that I didn't.

I thought I was having fun
playing with your heart
in the exact same ways
that you had played with mine.

I thought I wanted
to make you hurt
cause you hurt me.

But then it worked.

I took it too far
because I still didn't think you cared
and I told you I felt nothing
as you were about to tell me you loved me.
And you sat back and closed your eyes
and that was when I knew:
you didn't mind that I didn't feel the same.
You didn't feel the same either.

But last night you almost kissed me,
until you stopped and pushed me away again.
And I never could have expected
what you told me next.

But then I got what I wanted,
and I realized how much you hurt,
and everything in me shattered
hearing your voice break.

And there have been far too many apologies
so I'm not sure if this one will even mean anything to you
but I can't say sorry enough
for wanting to hurt you
when you're the one who matters the most to me.

Whatever you do,
don't ever ever ever
throw out a piece of paper.
One day you could
be cleaning out your room
and discover a sheet
covered in scribbles
and notes in the margins
and raw thoughts
that might even seem to come
from another you entirely.
But whatever the page says,
you'll see yourself in it
and be taken back to those feelings--
if they're good, they'll remind you
of times you felt happiest;
if they're bad,
you'll be able to look at them
with wisdom you didn't have then.

The eraser is not your friend.
It tricks you into thinking
that words you have dared
to get out on paper
might not have been good enough.
A really cool thing
about things you write
is that it isn't like real life:
any ending you don't like,
any aspect that isn't
exactly completely perfect right away
(and believe me,
not many aspects will be)
can always be returned to and rewritten
any time you want to change it.
But write your first drafts in pen,
because any thought you have
is going to be beautiful
because it is your own.

And finally, if you ever do need
to get rid of a piece of paper,
recycle it.
Cause the beautiful part
about recycling
is that it takes something
that you just werent able to use
and turns it into
something that could be
meaningful and beautiful
to somebody else.

I have a lot of favorite places
that are too far away
from where I am right now.

I can't walk out the front door
and be at the beach,
I can't put on my sneakers
and jog to Times Square,
and I can't pick up my camera
to go explore the mountains.
(I'm not even close enough to Chicago
to go there any time I want.)

But in this town
we've found a way
to take the least exciting places
and make them extraordinary.

I've never felt safer
on a high school campus
than when I'm in the corner
of the theatre building's upper level
where the first of many kisses happened.
You say your car is ******,
but there are few places I'd rather be
than the passenger seat with my hand in yours.
And the streets of my neighborhood
have been paved with our laughter
as we've tried to find adventure
(and avoid ticks.)

So maybe my world isn't
full of life and stories
like some of my favorite places,
but because of you,
it's pretty amazing anyway.

I was fully prepared
to write a poem
about you leaving
because my mistakes
were too big this time.

What I was not prepared for
was for you to pull me in
and not let go—
both figuratively and literally.

I wasn't prepared
to hear you say you loved me.

And I know that you're probably
still a little upset with me,
but I promise I can find a way
to make it up to you,
cause I can't think
if anybody else
who's more worth it
than you.

(And also, I think,
I need to say thanks,
cause I'm going to bed smiling
instead of in tears,
and writing this poem
is a whole lot nicer
than the one I was prepared to write.)

But believe me,
it isn't like
I don't want you to stay.
This is more about
the fact that
I don't see the use anymore
in fighting for you.
Because if you want to leave
then there's literally nothing
that I'm able to do
to keep you here.
(You were always the persuasive one anyway.)
So I won't try to fight it,
but it's because I love you,
not because I don't.
And loving someone is all about
doing everything you can
to make sure they're happy.
So I hope you are—
with or without me.

If I had the chance,
maybe I'd go back
to when our Polaroid was still dark.
There was more possibility then.
I was looking at you
through a rose-colored lens
and what [I thought] I saw
was amazing.
I snapped a picture
(possibly too quickly)
and wrote my favorite four-letter word
on the bottom of the film,
mostly because I liked the way my hand felt
while forming the letters.
But we've developed now,
and I'm not sure I like what I see.
Only part of you made it into the frame,
and you were blurred around the edges—
almost like you were moving.
(And most of the time I couldn't tell
wether you were coming or going.
I think I know now.)
Your hands and your lips,
those were the only parts of you
that came out clearly.
Your eyes and your heart
we're the hardest to see.
*But I noticed someone
in the background
that came out a lot clearer
than I had expected.
And maybe, because of him,
the Polaroid isn't so bad after all.

I don't need you
to promise me
you're never going to
leave.
But what I want
is a promise
that while you're here,
you'll love me
for everything
that makes you want to stay,
but also everything
that doesn't.
Cause what I've discovered
is that you cannot possibly
really love someone
unless you've fallen in love
with all their broken pieces
in addition to
the parts of them
that haven't yet
lost their sparkle.
So the next time you find yourself
reaching for my hand,
know that I don't need you
to promise me
you're never going to let go.
All I want from you
is to know
that when you take my hand,
you're also taking my heart,
which really isn't always
as strong as it wishes it could be for you.
But what it is
is the kind of heart
who wants to see your pages opened
and read you word for word,
because it's fallen in love
with all of your phrases
that could be passed for poetry,
and also all the parts of you
that you might consider typos,
but I consider incredible.

The hum of the nightlife
lulls me to sleep
and I wrap my arms
around the cool pillow—
instead of your chest.
Broadway lights twinkle
above my head,
but no one
forms them into constellations with me.
The coffee is great, and
the streets stay exciting,
but there's nobody's hand
to hold as I'm walking.
Manhattan is incredible
and here I am happy,
                                      but the only thing
                                     this city still needs
                                                          i­s you.

One day we're going to be a "real couple." I'll invite you over, and you won't have to park around the corner. Maybe it'll even be when my parents are home. Maybe I won't need to sneak out. For now, you pull into the driveway of the church on the next street—but I don't mind the walk.

One day we'll be able to go on our First Official Date. We can go to that restaurant you like downtown, and I'll borrow a dress from my best friend because none of mine will look right. I think I'll love the city even more when I'm walking through it with you. For now we're grabbing fast food on stolen time, trying to get back to school before anyone notices we're gone. We get away with it every time.

One day I'll be able to spend the night. You'll wear those neon green sweatpants and I'll laugh at you for them, but you'll probably look good anyway. We'll watch old movies, like the one where Robin Williams and young Matt Damon go see about a girl, or the one where Audrey Hepburn spends her time in jewelry stores and doesn't name her cat. For now I can only come over for enough time to watch a few episodes of a show about a paper-selling company. I like it, though. I've always loved the theme song, and your laugh is still one of the best things I've ever heard.

One day I'll get in your car and we'll spend hours driving around, exploring and seeing where we end up. I won't worry about traffic being slow or getting caught, and you'll play your music as loud as we can take it while we try to find the best places around here to get lost. For now we talk about running away on the way back to my parents' world, and I wish with all my heart that we could one day. You don't let go of my hand the entire car ride.

One day I'll be free to make my own choices, and you'll be the only option that I want. For now I'm sixteen, and you're seventeen, and we're both young and naïve, and we both make wishes at 11:11. My favorite kisses are the ones that taste like your coffee, and you laugh at me for the time last year when I only liked tea. Sometimes I'm not good at hiding how sheltered I've been growing up, but you never seem to care. You make fun of my poetry, but I keep writing it anyway. I make fun of you for being way too into weight lifting, but I agree to try it with you sometime. And there's a lot we don't really know yet—but with everything I am, I love you and I love you and I love you, and that's exactly how I know that one day we'll be able to be anything and everything we want to be.

For now that's all I can say. But "one day" is much less of a daydream and much more of a promise.

I like thinking about
     how city traffic, in a way,
          echoes the ocean.
                    (But it adds its own separate rhythms.)
           Though the swells are both never-ending,
           the energy of both is never constant.
  The city is never the same place twice.
   The same wave cannot crash again.
And never
                have either
                                 gone back.

Once a writer falls in love with you,
you can't ever die—
we all know the saying.
But what happens, I wonder,
to those who fell in love
but never tried to preserve it
with paper and ink?
Was their love, I wonder,
not as real
as the love that all of us
have written down,
as if the feelings aren't official
until we find an artistic way
to express them in words?

So this one goes out to
all the athletes and the inventors,
to the photographers and the painters
and the musicians and the dancers—
to the encouragers, and the listeners,
and the readers—
to everyone who's ever been in love.
To anyone who's ever found themselves
feeling the same way inside as it feels
when you step into the sun
after spending far too long
in artificial lighting,
or when you feel the breeze again
after far too much air conditioning.

This one goes out to all of you.
To all of *us.
Because no matter how we choose
to express it,
we are the lovers,
and we can never die.

Since you left, I haven't once thought of tracing my fingernails across my skin. I started eating again, and tried to make things better with the people from which I disconnected.

But it didn't have to do with finding happiness again since you left. It wasn't about regaining confidence—and neither of those things have happened. I'm still every bit as sad as you remember me, if you remember me at all, but I found out that I didn't need to do any of the things I used to do to make myself hurt.

I've found a much better version of masochism.

I used to try and stop my mind from letting memories of us leak into my every day thoughts. I used to try to stop my heart from letting itself skip beats, and then slow back down once it remembered that those memories were just that, memories, and had no chances of recurring now that you didn't love me anymore. It hurt too much, and I was about to cover that hurting with the physical kind when it hit me.

I realized that the worst kind of pain I could experience was heartbreak.

So the next time the memories came, I allowed them to wash over me and let the stinging come, like saltwater crashing into an open wound. I didn't try to stop any of the worst thoughts that came to mind, and wouldn't dry any of the tears that wanted to fall. It burned far hotter than I had expected, but I embraced the embers as they touched me in the weakest places.

This has happened more times than I could count over the past few weeks. Like growing accustomed to the irritation in my skin where I had run my nails and slowly letting it grow to numbness, the impact of the memories has decreased slightly but steadily. I'm hoping that soon enough I can become used to the pain you've left me, that one day the flames will come but I won't be able to feel the burn. Maybe then, like the phoenix, I can reconstruct myself from the ash and embers and come back as if I had never been hurt before.

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 know a girl
who leaves lunch early,
earbuds in one hand,
history book tucked into the other,
who gets reclusive in big groups
and would rather spend a Friday night
reading with a teacup nearby
than out at a party.
Not when she sings.
When Maddie sings,
she shines,
and all of her nerves
seem to melt away in the first verse
as she shows everyone
how amazing she is in her element.

I know a girl
with really long legs,
who still crawls up the stairs sometimes
and trips over her own feet
more often than anybody I know.
Not when she dances.
When India dances,
she's dazzling,
and her smile is the brightest onstage
and you can just tell
through her incredible grace and radiance
that this is what she's truly passionate about.

I know a girl
who loves meeting new people,
but gets really awkward
the second time you talk to her,
because after introductions
she has no idea what to talk about
and has never been skilled
at articulating what she wants to say.
Not when she writes.
When I write,
the words just spill from my pen
until before long
I've found a way to take my thoughts
and turn them into something I hope
is worth leaving behind for the world.

I know a girl
who isn't nearly as confident
as she should be.
She puts a lot of thought
into how people see her
and watches all her words
(not to mention her actions)
very carefully.
Not when she's with you.
When Sophia is with you,
her laughter is effortless.
She sets aside
everything she's worried about
and allows herself
to get lost in the moment,
eyes sparkling and focused
on nothing but you.

I know a boy
who has a lot of insecurities.
And he and I
have a ton of differences.
We don't get along
pretty much ever
and a lot of the time
he irritates me beyond belief.
He can be sorta immature
and more often than not
finds it really hard to stand up for himself.
It seems to me
like a lot of his life
he's been treated like a second choice
and started to believe that's what he is.
Not when he's with her.
When you're with Sophia,
don't ever think she doesn't care about you.
Because you're the boy
who saw her heart
as well as her beauty
and loved her for all of it
and couldn't go very long
without her in your life,
because even when you tried to ignore it,
you couldn't deny
that the connection you two had
was too strong to force apart.
So even though we've had our fights,
and even though my opinion doesn't matter at all in this,
I wanted you to know
that I absolutely support the two of you.
Because I've seen the way you look at her,
and it's the exact same way I look at him.
And when someone looks at somebody else
the way you look at her,
there is nothing in the world
that should keep them from each other
if what they want
is to be together.

I just got off the phone with you,
and I'd have to admit
that hearing the smile in your "hello"
was one of the best parts of my day.
And laughing with you, and
absorbing some of your carefree relief
took some of my own stress
off my shoulders.
And tomorrow I'll probably make jokes
about being in love with a college boy,
but also it is a little bittersweet—
because over the course of just a day
the fact that you're leaving in a few months
suddenly became very, very real.
But St. Louis isn't that far away,
and 320 miles could have been a lot more,
and even though I'd rather say it in person,
I won't get tired
of that same smile in your voice
when you pick up the phone—
and though it's better to say face-to-face,
the sincerity in every one of my I love you's
won't be fading with the distance.

I wrote it all out today:
all my biggest reasons,
using three words, eight letters in the tenth,
and it took a lot of caution
and almost not enough self-awareness
to not let my mouse slip
over the "send" button.
Because I don't think I'll tell you yet,
but I promise someday
that I'm going to say it:
I always breathe easiest
whenever you're around,
and nothing feels more natural
than your hands on my waist,
and I finally understand
what all of those cheesy songs
were actually talking about.
Mostly, though, soon I'll tell you
that even though I wouldn't exactly
know from experience,
I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like
to be in love with you.

I think the worst part is
being totally helpless,
and having to sit here
and wait patiently
like a good girl
while other people
get to decide for me
wether or not
it is acceptable
for me to love him.

As if they get to choose
how I feel
and how I get to act
on those feelings.
It's like they see themselves
as puppeteers
that can pull whichever strings they want
and demand me to follow suit,
without saying a single word
of any kind of protest at all.

And once upon a time,
I may have even danced for them,
but my cheeks have gotten tired
from painting on forced smiles,
and my heart is wearing thin
from all the tug-of-wars
between their limits
and my own freedom.

So I think that it's time
for this puppet show to end.
And I'm sorry,
but these strings are being cut–
so if there's an encore,
it'll finally be up to me.

You are
a clap of thunder
in the midst of a summer storm,
exciting and full of life,
but you are also
the next day,
when the sun is shining
and there isn't a single cloud in the sky.

You are
restlessness, impatience,
and the feeling that
there is too much else
that's keeping both of us away,
but you are also
contentment,
and knowing that
even if I don't get all of you right now,
there isn't any rush,
and the hope that even though
forever is past the horizon,
it's still there waiting for us
...someday.

You are*
my favorite book,
the one I know by heart
and can recite all
your greatest quotes,
but you are also
a book I've never read before,
that I can't wait to learn more about
with each new chapter.

You are
a lot of things
that are completely new to me
and I'm both curious
and a little apprehensive,
but you are also
a lot of things
that make me feel like
I've known you my whole life
and want to know you forever.

But I can't understand
why the hell
people actually believe
that a number one-through-ten
could actually ever
be an accurate representation
of who a person is.
As if a number,
barely two digits at its best,
could ever actually capture
what makes up a person—
their passion in life, their favorite art piece,
their tears at 2:56 AM (and what caused them,)
their hopes, the way they like to wear their hair,
or how they treat the people
who can do nothing for them.
Not even a hundred digits could summarize that.
So, sorry if you thought you were being nice—
but I'm not an "8."
I'm not anything;
don't think for a second
that you can confine me
to a ******* number
and just write it off
like everything I am can fit
into something as simple as that.

I never thought
that seven days
was a long time to have to wait
for anything—
until I had to
wait patiently here
and count down the seconds
until I got to see you again.

And I never thought
that seven days
was enough time
to fall for someone—
but it only took two
for me to realize
that your everything
was something I felt like
I needed more of.

*(And I have no idea
how many days
it takes for someone like me
to fall in love with someone like you—
but at the rate things are going,
it's the kind of thing
I really hope I get to do
someday soon.)

After waiting all week
of the school break
for this afternoon,
when I get back on a plane
to go home to everything I know,
I'm finally packing away my sundresses
and trading them in for cashmere.
Because Florida can be nice
when you're there for a few days,
but I miss my bedroom,
and my school,
and most importantly,
my amazing best friends—
and the unexplainable happiness
that comes with coming back
to the two of you.
So how was the week without me?
Was everything crazy enough
for you both?
Oh, I can't wait to see you again—
I've been waiting all week
just to get back to Monday.
I'll see you third period—
for now I've still got a few more things
to continue packing up.
Love you lots, girls—
I'll call as soon as I can.

I don't think I've ever mentioned to you
just how much.

If you collected all the sand
from every beach on earth,
(including the one you took me to
the day we felt particularly adventurous,)
and weighed every ounce of it,
you might have measured some
of how heavily my heart pounds around you.

And if you gathered all the stars
that dance across the Milky Way,
and counted them up, one by one,
you'd have a fraction of the number
of times you've made my heart
stop completely, in awe of you.

And if you walked through every butterfly exhibit
of every science museum and zoo on the planet,
and allowed each and every one of them
to flutter their wings against your skin,
you could maybe get an idea
of the feeling in my stomach every time I see you.

And if you found every book ever written—
every poem, every letter, every essay—
that tried to describe what this feels like,
and you leafed through every page, taking in
every single cliché and thought in existence on the topic,
you might know some of the words that go through my head
every time that you get closer to me.

That's how much.

Hey, kiddo,
how's everything back in Chicago?
It's almost gotten boring
here in Florida.
It's pretty early still,
but I'm almost certain that
today will be exactly the same
as yesterday was,
considering that the day before
was exactly the same as well.

I tried fishing, like you said I should,
but I didn't catch anything.
I think it's better that way, though,
cause I still think I would feel terrible
if I had actually hurt any of the fish.
But when we were finishing up,
three dolphins jumped out of the water
just a few feet from the dock—
and that was amazing.

Are your college essays going okay still?
Try not to be too stressed about it, kiddo,
You know you're an amazing writer
and I can't think of any school in the country
who wouldn't be lucky to have you.
Finish up with the sixteenth soon, though,
I miss having you to talk to.

Oh, and I've been wondering,
now that Thanksgiving is over and all:
What exactly is it
that a boy like you might want for Christmas?
I've tried to think about it a lot,
but really, I have no idea,
because you deserve something perfect
and I'm not sure what that looks like yet.
I'm hoping that by the end of December
I'll know more about what to get you
I'm a little bit nervous about it, to be honest,
I've never really had a boy to shop for.
And nothing I've come up with so far
has been anything close to
the right kind of gift for someone like you.

I guess this is where I'll close or something,
just writing to let you know I was thinking of you.
Love you lots, kiddo,
call me when you can.

I'm thousands of miles above the ground,
and far below me, straight down,
umbrellas are blossoming open
and doors are closing
and those who can are staying inside,
to keep out of the thunderstorm
that I'm watching from up here.

(Lightning looks very different
when you're miles above it.)

And up here, where I am,
the sky is a brilliant hue—
I don't think I could describe it with
azure, or sapphire, or ultramarine—
it's really only describable
with moments.

The sky up here is a perfect day in summer
with your two best friends
and a lot of ice cream.
The sky up here is the day after it snows
and the blanket of white on the ground
is still untouched and sparkling
in the sunlight that's returned again.
The sky up here is letting go
of the thing weighing your heart down forever,
and watching it sail away on dandelion seeds
in the minutes right before
the sun blushes red and pink
and bends down to kiss the horizon.

And miles and miles below me,
the thunderstorm is going on.
So I wish I could tell all the people
who are running to get out of the cold rain
to stop, and to dance in it,
and to make the most of even times like this,
because directly above all the clouds
that are blocking their view of it right now,
the sky is still the most amazing
shade of cerulean ever to exist,
and it always is just as vibrant
wether their situation lets them see it or not.

My best friend's younger brother
was cornered by older girls today
and punched in the eye—
because he wasn't athletic
and they thought that made him weak.

Haven, kiddo, let me tell you:
in that moment,
(any moment,)
you were anything but weak.
I promise you with all my heart
that you are and always will be
stronger than all those girls combined.
Because even after just eleven years,
you know a lot more
than a lot of adults out there.
You've been the little guy,
but you stand up for the little guy, too;
and you're honest;
and most importantly,
you never forget to say "I love you."

And Haven, just remember:
no matter what anybody
tries to etch into your self-esteem,
you are not weak.
You are lionhearted, which also means
that sometimes people will
underestimate you
because of how gentle you are.

But don't ever apologize for that.
They don't call the lion the King of the Sahara for nothing.

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.)