I write

I don’t always write about her,

but when I do— half of me wishes she’s reading.

The other half hopes she doesn’t know

I scratch words into notebook margins

and spill coffee on poems

that were written on nights

when I thought about the way

she tilts her head back and smiles;

how her eyes light up like Christmas lights.

Fleeting, like fireflies.


— “Sometimes I think I write too much.”

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I am what I hide only if you understand what I write.

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