maybe we met and I , I forgot.

I am unashamedly Ashley. At least that's what "hellopoetry" calls me. Tumblr calls me "vesperoflove", but if you really knew me you'd drop off the glitz and just call me "Ash".

And here we are sitting on the subway and something about you makes me want to open up. Maybe it's the way you smile or the wrinkles you get when you are trying not to. But I look into your eyes and you hold my gaze, and I like that. You aren't staring at me like I am worthless piece of trash nor have you look at me like I am a piece of ***, you are just looking into my eyes. I am flattered by the attention, I might stumble over words, and your interest might even cause me to blush. You ask to sit by me and I wave you in, and that's where this new chapter begins.

"Hi." I say working up the nerve to meet your gaze,and I blush, I am the abscence of your color and I stare down at my legs and as you rearrange yours to accommodate the length of your logs extensions of your long trunk, I note the contrast in appreciation.

And I get distracted by this, but you are asking me questions about my life and I try and dredge up silver lining in monotony of years.

    What have I done exciting?
    What do I hope to accomplish?
    Where do I see myself in the next five years?
    What do I want?
And that is only the tip of the Iceberg you have thrown in my lap.

Coming off as an host of a talk radio show, I ponder these illuminating thoughts.

And your probably not the first person to ask me these things, but right now its like I have never been truly asked.

I don't know why I haven't asked these things of myself.

But cargo doesn't ask or question. And maybe that's how I have been living my life.

Merely reacting to things that have happened in the past and in the present.

I would like to blame it on my poverty mindset. On the way I grew up. But then when does my accountability start.When do I get to make choices for me, and be held responsible.

At the age 18 when I can rent ****, buy stick de cancer?

What age do we become our own person, driven by our own desires?

But you aren't worried of the questions I haven't begun to ask and I like that.
I lean in closer hoping to gauge you reaction in your eyes.
I am known and you see me not as I am but what I could be and all the things I have yet to achieve do not mar your rose color glasses.

I find joy in the kindness of strangers and reprieve.

and I write them.
love letters to strangers,
I support the troops,
I organize a drive,
I make out letters to faceless people,
knowing not the strength of their smile,
but imagining the topography of their hearts,
of their hearts,
I pencil out conversations,
that don't matter,
in order that they know that they matter,
if only to me,

I compliment strangers,
I tip more then the bill,



and I am a face less white girl,
who seemingly has got her things in order,
see my left hand, I've hid my right.
and as they rationalize these random acts of kindness
the gestures,
that I want to matter,

I wonder if they think of me?

I write love letters to strangers,
because their easier to love,
then myself,
I write love letters to strangers,
because I 'm not willing to start one to me.