The weatherman told us
today would be awful
but I don't think he knows
what he was talking about.
A "polar vortex"
is really nothing
that we can't handle,
and not being able to drive
isn't really much
to complain about.

I tried to hate the snow
for keeping you from getting here--
but when I looked outside to glare at it
it danced on the wind past the library window,
careless and free and absolutely beautiful.
And though of course I miss you
and wish the chair across from me
didn't have to be empty,
it's difficult to focus
on the things I don't have here with me
when I'm next to the heater in a leather chair,
laptop in front of me and earbuds in.

And it's not quite as fun
to be here alone,
but I do have to admit
I'll get a lot more work done.
So promises of "next time"
will have to be enough,
at least for the time being,
and for now I guess
what we'll have to do
is both look out the window
and take in the expanse of whiteness
for something incredible
instead of
the burden the weatherman
told us it would be.

Too much
of a good thing
is bad,

but too much
of something amazing
destroys you.

Remember the days in middle school
when we'd take a notebook (exactly like
the ones I now fill with poetry)
and write back and forth in it,
trading off between passing periods
and pouring out our hearts?
That was only a year or two ago,
but now you feel so far away
that I don't even remember if
I made you up in my head.

Remember all the times eighth grade
when we'd go to each other's houses
and make monkey bread
just to finish off the last bite an hour later?
I haven't baked anything with a friend
since the last time we did that.

Remember how we signed off
every time we wrote in that little notebook,
with a drawing of a whale
and our acronym that stood for
Love You To Pluto And Back?
To this day whales are still my favorite
and just the thought of the acronym
makes me smile.

Remember the Painted Penguin
and how we were the oldest girls in the store
but we didn't even mind
because it was so much fun
to be doing silly things together?
I still have all the little ceramic statues
that we painted over with shaky hands.

Remember the boy I told you about,
the one who gave me my first kiss
and was the only one who said he loved me
and got the same response back from me?
We broke up last June,
but a week ago exactly
he told me he still loved me like he used to,
and he still got the same response back from me.

Remember all the times
that I messed up
and you were angry enough
to let all your hurt out on me,
and I deserved it?
My best friend now
talks exactly the same way you do
when she's upset with me
and I deserve it.

Remember the years when
we never would have hesitated
to call each other the best of friends?
I still love you just as much,
but you've stopped returning texts
and I haven't seen you at all
in the past two years.
And I've really tried to tell you
that I miss you more than anything,
but it absolutely terrifies me
that I don't think you feel the same.

I've never really felt like doing
anything like drugs or alcohol.
But being around you makes me
understand
why people love the feeling.

But they aren't as lucky as I am,
cause you can cause me to
forget
absolutely
everything
and make me dizzy
just by being next to me.

(Honestly, just thinking about you
makes my stomach do backflips.)

On the other hand, they're luckier.
Cause I've tried time and time again
to get rid of this addiction,
and I can't bring myself to do it,
and there isn't a Twelve-Step Program
to quit you.

People always tell you
that living in the city means
you miss out
on the night sky.
The thing I don't realize is
it doesn't matter
where you are—
the stars are still there, just different.
And the way I see it,
Cityscapes at night
have their own cosmic qualities.
Groups of skyscrapers
cluster into galaxies
and headlights shine like comets
and if you look up
the moon is still shining there.
The way I see it,
cities act as solar systems in themselves;
holding all of the excitement
and all of the magic
and all of the inspiration
that comes from gazing at the stars.

There's a lot that hurts about it.
Like not being able
to look at pictures from last year's prom
without thinking of him,
and seeing him in the halls
and just saying "hello"
instead of finding myself
wrapped in his arms out of nowhere,
and watching as he gets into other girls' cars
a lot of Friday nights.

There's a lot that hurts about it.
But the absolute worst part is knowing
I lost you (because I picked him)
when you were the most important thing to me
and he was just the one
who told me he loved me more often.

And you've been gone a while now,
but you had gone weeks before the moving truck
pulled out of your driveway.
And the hardest part
is that I know it was only me
who sent you away.
And now I'm scared it's nearly impossible
to have you come back.

There's a lot that hurts about it.
And I hated losing him,
but I don't think I'll ever forgive myself
for losing you first.

I should have said it earlier,
but here's my "I'm sorry—"
I couldn't do it.
I thought maybe the first time
it was something like
the wrong place at the wrong time,
or it was just me being nervous.
I thought maybe the first time
I was just caught off guard.
But maybe the first time
should have stayed the only time,
because now after the second time
I'm stuck feeling terrible because
I still can't do it.
And it isn't you,
please don't think it's you,
I promise it isn't you
because I know it's him.
It's always been him.
So this isn't me
turning you down because of who you are.
But it is me
telling you I can't,
because of who you're not.

You want me to ask questions and I won't.
This isn't mine to know.
I don't have the right to know, nor do I
deserve to find out anything.

I don't.

But she does.
She deserves to know all of it,
whatever it is
that's compelled you
and your passive aggression
to let her find out
like this.

It isn't fair to her,
you know that.