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.”