I scribbled your number over, over and over again
on a piece of paper, hoping it would make you call
me once more and linger over a conversation longer
than two minutes and I swear I wasn't superstitious
like my mother who hated it whenever I broke mirrors
and walked under ladders; she said I was such an idiot,
I think it's catching up with me like the salty wind to our
skin during the first night you kissed me and said I was
pretty decent and it's okay if I scribble your number a thousand
more times just to hear you say that again.