I write a lot about being in the passenger seat,
In cars that are beat up,
Or sometimes they're luxe.
About soft linens and and duvets like winter's best angels,
About smoking Marlboro reds on front porch steps.
About cold and blank mornings.

I write a lot about coffee shops.
Looking out the window and watching passerby's,
Feeling the sonder seep into my bones,
About the ones who smile at me,
Those I don't know,
And those I eventually get to meet.

I write about falling in love,
Getting my heart broken,
*** with strange men,
Which was only one time.  
When I felt loss in my chest and got carried away.

And so I want you to feel me the way I feel all of these things that I can't help but be so obsessed with and I don't know why.