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 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.

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 gave you my heart
and you gave me your own
after school sometime in early spring.

I found my best paintbrush
and in a few careful strokes,
I put my name on your heart
in my best calligraphy.
You pulled out an object
I was all too familiar with
and placed the blade against my heart.
Then you pressed down,
and I don't think you realized
but when you wrote your name
it sunk in deeper than I think you meant to,
and you ended up carving your name
into my heart.

Then you handed it back to me,
and asked for your own,
so I had to return it,
paint strokes and all.
Soon enough you had managed
to wipe off all the calligraphy
and your heart was good as new.

I wish you had made it so easy for me.

I've given up by now
on trying to fill the space
where your name has been engraved.
I've accepted, I guess,
that you'll stay there forever.

But I have yet to
get used to the inscription,
and I want you to know
that next time,
you should really use a paintbrush.

Carving with a knife hurt a lot more.

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.)

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.

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.)

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 inked your name
all over my body
until every inch of me
had traces of you,
as you claimed every new part of me—
my attention, my mind,
and finally my heart—
until you had me in my entirety
and every word I said
echoed with the sound of you.
Every new promise I tattooed
onto my skin
with invisible ink
so it could only be seen
to you
who knew every detail of me
like you knew your own
ambitions,
like you knew your own reflection.
And the ghost of your hands remained
everywhere that I
had welcomed them.
And soon those ghosts
found a way
to sink deeper than the surface
as all the promises and fingerprints
and your name,
over and over,
were sent into my bloodstream
and overtook every part
of who I had been.
Until finally I couldn't even
recognize myself
buried under the things
you had taken
and rearranged forever
as I was writing
the same five letters
behind every word my hand formed.
And as more of me was lost
to the cells of you
hidden throughout my veins,
you took more steps
further away
until the only evidence
you had even been here
was your name,
over and over,
inked into my heartbeats
and whispering repeatedly
from every single thing
I'd written of love.

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.

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'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.

When I was young and lonely,
yet wise enough,
I'd slipped off my skin and held it out to you
and you accepted it. I'd been left with bare bones, then.
And as I handed over my lips and eyebrows and fingernails,
You accepted those, too.
Next I'd slipped out my heart and offered you it,
But you refused to take it, and so
I'd realised I was left without a coat
in the cold winter's blight.
Nothing but a skeleton, as frostbite
bit at me and I'd stood shivering,
my skin in your hands,
my heart in mine.
The wind hit my back and sent through me shudders
and I pleaded for you to give back what had once been mine.
But you just stood with eyes like glass, and wordlessly
you let me know it was helpless.
One by one, I felt my bones begin to freeze
from my toes and swiftly traveling up.
I couldn't tell then if my shaking came from cold
or if it was the blizzard of emotions burying me.
At my fingertips I could sense
the heart which I still cradled in my hands start to grow rigid
and it's beating grew ever more mechanical,
losing all energy and life,
working routinely and with passion gone.
Time stopped altogether and we stood, unmoving.
A fleeting warmth, a single hot tear—
it barely left my eye before becoming solid.
And the silence broke with the sound of your footsteps
but there I stayed in stunned paralysis,
my eyes locked on the remains of me
that you had ****** at my feet
and the cold heart I still held.
I picked myself up and slipped me back on,
the same as I had been before.
But my heart I kept frozen, though now it's aware
and I won't make that misstep again.
With a heart not my own, I'll continue,
untrusting—
the only part of you I let myself keep.

It might be tough,
but I don't mind.

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

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.

We did really well this time.
It was the longest we'd gone
without one of us messing it up—
I was proud.
But now I've decided
these record-breaking few months
should really be the nice note
that we end on.
Cause both of us are performers,
not composers,
and we can play the parts just fine,
but as soon as the background music falters
and it's our turn to take charge,
and use the opportunity to shine,
we falter, too, and back out of
the spotlight that's begging us to take a chance.
So it's the last time
that I'm running backstage.
I'm seizing this chance
to conduct for once,
and I'm getting the feeling
you're just waiting for the song to end too.
................................................................­...................
Don't worry.
The decrescendo will be as fast as possible.

"Kids can be mean," they said.
"Kids can be immature."
They told us that kids can
do things they normally wouldn't
without really thinking things through.
They didn't warn us, though,
that those same kids
would smile at you in the halls
and treat you like a friend
when you were face to face.
They never warned us
that kids would be cruelest
when they could hide behind
the mask of the word "anonymous"
and walk away, totally blameless.
We weren't ever told
that the harshest things said to us
would be from kids we thought liked us—
and we'd never even know which "friends"
we're saying things to hurt us.

"Kids can be mean," they said,
"but they won't really mean it.
It's just being swept up in the mindset
that acceptance will come from
judging those that are being judged."

And they sometimes tried to tell us,
but so few of us listened…
the power we have
to stop the kids ganging up on kid
is just as strong
as the power we have to start it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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 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.

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.

Once
I built a sandcastle
and showed it to
the ocean.
I had made sure
that every detail was
perfect—
working as hard as I could
to keep it safe,
because all I ever wanted was
for it to last long.

The waters hardly noticed,
they were far too concerned
with their own purposes
to even bother
with my effort.
When they crashed at my feet,
it sent the best kind of chills up my spine—
but that only happened
if it was convenient for them.
They'd never go out of their way
just to find their way
to me.

Sometimes I would try
to go out to them,
wanting the seafoam
to rush over my toes
and the cold spray
to splash into me.

But sometimes they didn't come.

The waves went back out
and wanted nothing to do with me.

The next day
I returned to the ocean.
What I found was that
in a matter of hours,
the waves I had
loved so much
had taken the chance
to destroy.
The sandcastle that
I'd worked so *******
was completely gone,
without a trace,
nothing to show for it.
You wouldn't even know that I'd
tried in the first place.

You and the ocean have a lot in common.

I had always been really excited
to be able to share an autumn with you.
(I was naïve to assume we'd even get past summer,
but) I absolutely couldn't wait for you and I
to try and name the exact colors
of the leaves we picked off the ground,
and I couldn't wait
to borrow your sweaters
(as if they could have kept me
any warmer than your hugs would)
and to kiss you while
the taste of our last lattes
were still on our lips.
I had wanted to read Thoreau
in the corner of the library,
right next to you
as you tried to perfect your journalism assignment
and not be able to focus on my book
because your thoughtful expression
was far too adorable not to distract me.

(I was right; you look best in fall colors.
But it's stopped being my place
to tell you things like that anymore.)

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.)

I came here to work on an assignment I put off;
I figured it would be quiet and I could get things done.

But in the quiet I watched crimson leaves
dancing in the rain as the wind would let them,
and I remembered when we did the same.

And I thought about just how much
a change in the weather can do to shatter relationships
and wished for the thousandth time
that summer never came
and graduation never happened
and you never left.

I didn't need the sun anymore—
you were my Apollo—
but you knew how much I loved the moon,
and you shone too brightly in my eyes
for me to see it anymore.

And I'm thanking you forever
for bringing back the stars.
There's nothing more important in my life.
But it's a tricky kind of gratitude
because part of me is pleading
for another eclipse,
for you to block everything out again,
but just for a moment.

So I can remember what it's like
to feel the warmth of the sun
while we're standing in the rain.