The crickets chirping outside my window
Remind me that certain feelings
Stain even the smallest details

I told myself
That things would feel different by this time
(And they do)
But in the same way a song is a time capsule
And a mode of temporary time travel
These crickets sound a lot like the ones that chirped away
While I thought what I felt back then
Would feel familiar forever

Then again
I guess they all do

The moon is beautiful tonight
And not a soul in this crowded parking lot seems to notice.
His eyes on her, her eyes on tomorrow -
Obscenely loud music trapped between tinted windows -
Children tiptoeing along a tightrope crack in the pavement -
And us.
While walking towards your car, I consider mentioning that
The moon is beautiful tonight -
But what I see is meant for self-discovery or not at all.
You look at me and smile.
I will always admire the way her glow is so generous to
Those unaware of the way she fills their eyes.
A delicate modesty.
You open my door
And I am thankful
But can’t help wishing to be with someone who notices that
The moon is beautiful tonight.

It had been a year,
and although I was merely trivial,
he will always be
quicksand

I couldn’t help but notice the way
that red flannel shirt
hung so carelessly from his shoulders
during our unexpected meeting
at the coffee shop last week

For a whole year
I have resented the fact that
he lingers in my dreams
But has moved on
to a beauty beyond my complexion

The new girl
with golden locks cascading
beside eyes like watercolor pearls

And me
Hiding my inadequacies beneath
Chiffon pink lip gloss and
A 99 cent smile

We sat across from each other in a dimly lit restaurant and I wished I hadn’t chose the seat with a clock in plain sight. I shredded a napkin between my fingers while fishing for words without bait. As he wiped condensation from his glass, I pushed the bits of paper into my hand and piled them in the corner of the table. During the time spent "perfecting" that pile, I pondered deeming the act a delicacy. As farfetched as that sounds, I couldn’t really help it. I dreaded the moment when our eyes would meet again, paired with our own versions of “let’s pretend this isn’t horrible” smiles. No teeth, of course.

I wasn’t nervous about this evening or this man; in fact, my feelings about him were quite certain. He is decent looking, well-spoken, and kind. Despite my initial reaching for the doorknob, he insisted that I enter the restaurant first. Those who know me know I am adamant about holding the door for others, fueled equal parts by principle and politeness, but after a few seconds of lighthearted bargaining, I sensed that he just wasn’t getting that. I reluctantly surrendered with a mannerly grin as he swung the door open. I was not bothered by the fact that he didn’t get it, but more that it didn’t seem worth trying to convince him otherwise.

After we were seated, he mentioned how cold October has been, and how “cool” the leaves look, and carefully spilled a few other cordialities on the table. I cleaned them mostly with agreement, but nothing more. He laughed when I told him I like to read the works of Jonathan Kozol “for fun,” and again when he saw the USA Today in my purse (realizing that I wasn’t kidding when I said I like to read that too). I wasn’t offended. Aside from being used to that sort of response, his laugh was not one of ridicule, but more a laugh of disbelief. A laugh that replaces silence while one reasons with the unfamiliar. Perhaps I would have been offended if he let me hold the door, or if he wanted to know why that mattered so much, but he didn’t, and from that I knew where this was going before it even started moving.

I wasn’t nervous about this evening or this man, but rather, finding the man I wish he was during an evening of which I dream. I wondered how many more napkins I would tear and niceties I would exchange before meeting someone passionate and riveting and curious. Someone who thinks the autumn leaves are “breathtaking,” and laughs at my USA Today because he reads the New York Times. Someone who is just as obstinate about holding doors, but is never annoyed when I say "after you," because he knows I have a point to prove, too. I won't have to explain it, although he will ask me to anyway, just so we can bicker through our smiles at the dinner table. And when he tells me I am "too stubborn," it will be implied that he appreciates my stubbornness most of all. Someone who just appreciates me. I was nervous that man might never -

“Hi guys, are you ready to order?”

My dreary Sunday drive with A Fine Frenzy is interrupted by a text message:
“Why do I wish he would text me? Maybe it’s the rain.”

After reminding her that he is the biggest ******* in America, I hope to ignore my inner English major and continue overanalyzing the lyrics of “Dream in the Dark.” However, as the squeaky cadence of my windshield wipers crescendos, the weather practically demands my attention.

She doesn’t need him and I don’t need you, but the rain never yields to assurance. It seeps through your imperfections and drenches every insecurity. Liquified doubt envelops the pavement, while the length of each red light seems just short of an eternity. I grow frustrated with the way the rain falls on my windshield, and having to rely on my wipers every three seconds for temporary clarity. I grow frustrated with how many three-second durations make up this car ride, and the way the squeaking mocks me, and how the rain doesn’t care about making it difficult to read the street signs.But the fact of the matter is I have somewhere to be, and I can’t let the rain prevent me from leaving where I’ve always been, even if only for the afternoon.

Under a blue sky, it is clear that she doesn’t need him and I don’t need you. I just wish this weather didn’t make everything so difficult to see.

So yeah, maybe it is the rain, but **** the rain on a day like this.

while a symphony of cicadas
sang narratives
in summer darkness
she wanted nothing more
than to be like August

as a kid
she carefully colored
within the lines,
but often pressed too hard,
and now finds herself hating
the way her poetry nearly
bleeds through the page

but there are nights
when August is stretched
across the windowsill,
demanding life from
the quietest corners
of her mind

daring to ask
what might have happened
if the lines weren’t so thick
and who exactly dictated their curvature

but before she has the chance
to part her lips,
he is always pushed aside
by a timely chill
and replaced with the
come-and-go
of foliage and falling leaves

re-enter
the twisted comfort
of September

she closes her window
the darkness
is silent

You don't have to do that
Spare me the Monday evening cordialities
Have you even considered the fact
That I am always looking away
As you walk up the stairs?

You don't have to do that
Catch my attention with your smile
Ask how I am doing
As if my answer might sway your next move:
A "see you later" in mid-stride
How symbolic

You don't have to do that
Because I don't need any favors
"I always acknowledge you"
As though it is some sort of obligation
And I should be thankful for your kindness

You don't have to do that
Because I do not care for
Routine hellos and overused smiles
Stained with the implication
Of a shallow rapport

You don't have to do that
Better yet
You have my permission to walk right past me
Every Monday evening
Because I am not interested
In acquaintanceship

You don't have to do that
Because in the same way it is hard to unsee
It is hard to unfeel
And I don't know how much longer
I can tell you I am "well"
Without wishing or waiting to explode

You don't have to do that
Because your eyes
Carry the prose I shared
Written by of a part of me
With which I am still unfamiliar

You don't have to do that
Because I am unable to pretend
The reciprocity of our passions
Is merely common
And irrelevant

You don't have to do that
Because it is impossible to deny that
We have chemistry
We have chemistry

But please
You don't have to do that
Because
Believe me
Had I known the sparks
Would result in wildfire
I would have extinguished them immediately

I am working to put out the flames
But it is awfully hard
While you are fanning the embers