It is 9:23 AM, February 18
I should be doing my homework.
Instead I'm writing poetry, wearing your sweatshirt.
It shouldn't smell like you. It should smell like dryer sheets.
It smells like mint. It smells earthy, like tea and coffee and
nutmeg and
you.

It is 9:04 AM, March 3
and your lips are against my head whispering
'i love you, grace'
and so I whisper it back, my lips barely moving because
it doesn't take much effort to love you
so it shouldn't take effort to tell you.

It is 2:30 PM, June 6.
You open the door and your little sister screams because my hair is bright blue and neither one of you were expecting it. Your older sisters give me a nod of approval and so I take your hand and skip to the 1997 Ford Explorer that will belong to me in 1 year + 6 months + 4 days.

It is 6:45, June 7.
I give you your birthday present. It is a CD of all the songs I sing in the shower when I miss you. All the songs that could have been about us. All the songs that I love and you don't know yet. You take your sweatshirt back. You don't kiss me.

It is June 28
and I'm home, baby! I'm home!
You're too busy to see me.
You say you wish you could but
what's the truth?

It is 9:30 AM, February 18
and I'm still wearing your sweatshirt and I could've gotten things done but I'm so lovestruck that all I can do is write run-on sentences that refuse to turn into poetry.

It is 9:31, February 18
and I'm awful at endings.
if we never say goodbye
I'll never have to
write an end to one of these
godforsaken poems

It is 11:11, October 30.
8 months later.
I haven't worn your sweatshirts in weeks and
we haven't spoken since July.
I say a silent prayer and realize
today is the day I start to regret
wasting all my wishes on you