I’m typing to you my confession.
as you read,
I hope you imagine the quiver in my voice
when I say your name
and you’ll picture me eyes cast downward,
stomach twirling
hair flying in all directions,
let’s imagine I’m telling you this on the streets of New York
since we always talked about living there,
and hopefully you’ll imagine me in red lipstick
and with my hair curled
because that’s always when I feel the most confident.
what I’m
trying
to tell
you is
you’re my Northern Lights.
a strange, nebulous wonder
that enchants every cell in my body,
I cannot figure you out
no matter how close I think I am to solving your endless mystery,
and I want to spend my nights
wrapped in your arms
looking into your eyes
and softly whispering my words into your ears...

LET’S LISTEN TO THE BLACK KEYS TOGETHER
LET’S WANDER THE STREETS
AND PRAY THAT WE DON’T GET SHOT
I have always swallowed your bullets.
the most deadly one is when
you tell me about her,
your Northern Lights girl
who doesn't need red lipstick to feel beautiful.

and i think that’s the saddest line of poetry I have ever written

falling in love with you has always
been subway stations,
it has been falling through cracks
and braving alley-ways
there’s not enough story lines in the New York Times
to make us
dance in the streets together,
drunkenly in love with one another
at last
and i need to stop picturing
your face whenever i hear the phrase “meant to be”

Here is me,
tears dripping,
lips quaking,
walking away from your figure
and praying
that darkness
won’t lead me back.