part-time poet. full-time yearner.

I couldn’t even let the newness of January linger before relapsing

into old habits—sick with the shame of wanting, still holding onto

a waning hope of change. I still can’t meet your gaze and tell you any

meaningful truths—I’ll tell you about the time I got turned around

on a backroad with no cell reception, low on gas and it was darker

than black. I was terrified of hitting a deer, so I drove cautiously as

possible, and I could only think of you. You haven’t noticed but

I still wince in your presence— I keep thinking today’s the day

you’ll break my heart for good, but you didn’t. For today, the

deer and I will make it home and sleep soundly and dream of

something rooted in softness, maybe we’ll both dream of a

meadow with running water and wildflowers. And of tomorrow?