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.”