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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.)

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.

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.)

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.)

Sometimes I try
to write about you
and I want to add
a line, something like
"and this is the last poem
I'll ever write for you."

But I know I can't ever do that.
You and I both know
I'd never be able
to truthfully say that.
Because if I'm being honest,
I'll always be writing about you.
I'll always be writing to you.
Your first love is the poem
you never ever stop writing.
I'll always be revising that poem,
always adding verses;
and of course it can never be perfect,
but in a way that's why it's beautiful.

So that's what you are to me—
the poem I'll always be writing,
revising,
rearranging,
living.
It'll always start with and come down to you.
The poem I'll carry around with me
in the little notebook I call my heart,
with scribbles in the margins
and notes to myself between stanzas.
You're the poem I'm going to reference
in every single other thing I write.
You're the crumpled piece of paper
pulled out of the back pocket of my memories
whenever anyone asks about the first time.
You're the ink in my pen
as it hits the paper
and you're every word I write with that ink.

And as far as first drafts go…
I'm really happy with what you gave me to work with.

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.

I saw you a few minutes ago
and you were laughing (and I had to laugh too)
but you didn't really look at me at all
yet it was way too hard to not look at you
and I have no idea how to explain
exactly how that moment felt
but I thought about your smile again
(and I had to smile too)
but then really fast I stopped
because the you that was just smiling
in the lobby of the building where we first kissed
was you exactly how you were six months ago
but somehow I couldn't see myself in your life anymore
and it wasn't like before
when I knew of course that I wasn't in your life anymore
but it was like I knew I wasn't
and I couldn't even see how it made sense
that I ever had been at all
and then I felt like crying
and I'm not even sure why
but I picked everything up
and I left right away
and now I'm upstairs
in the middle of the chair where we first kissed
and nothing feels the same
but I don't know how it's different
because I don't remember how it felt before
and now you're really quickly fading
from the person I thought was perfect
and couldn't believe was mine
(and then couldn't believe I had lost)
to another senior boy
who does his homework
in the lobby of the building where I go too
who barely even knows who I am
and wouldn't think twice
if he didn't say a word to me all year
and I don't want you to be that
(as in I need you to not be that)
but I don't know how to tell you
because it's already too late
and my thoughts aren't organizing themselves well
(as in this is probably my worst poem ever)
but I'm so shaken up
just by sitting near you
as you were laughing
and I don't know what's happening
but I hate what it's doing to me
and really all I want
is to have whatever I'm missing back
but I don't even remember what it was anymore.

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 might be tough,
but I don't mind.

Cause I'm all yours
if you're all mine.

"I've never been in love," you said,
one night when I shouldn't
have been talking to you at all.

                 "Yeah, I don't think I have either"
                           was all I could think to say.

  But under the stars
in the place we called ours
        there wasn't anywhere else
             I'd ever have wanted to be.

And I know my pulse quickened
        because I could feel it moving
                   faster
   on the tips of my fingers
        where my hand met yours.

When you looked me in the eyes that night,
                    I hope you could tell
                    I was lying.