doesn't really matter

"You're being vague, Amy," she
warns, as though I'm not always
repeating myself with
different words

morning

Now when I look to the horizon
it seems higher

almost-autumn

I am singing in German and
holding on
fast.

echo

I got to a small and specialized
school one thousand
miles away and
my heart
is too
full

one for the other one

Word on the street is
you loved me once, something
about a garnet ring and popcorn
on the pier, but it doesn't
sound familiar. I don't buy
it for a second.

write me

As I pour myself juice from
a pitcher--habit one of a thousand
I picked up from you--I survey my
too-white walls: a calendar, photos,
you and a heron, and the rest of the Core
Four, an award, a greeting card, I combat
the emptiness with
mementoes of you, just like
I never leave the house
without bracelet and bottlecap and paper
heart--you never realized it
was mine, begging you
to fill me with words and
phrases, relieve me of too much
white.

places we didn't go

I'm sick of things
unrequited and I'm sick of
almost and maybe in some
alternate reality where
you dream you could have loved me,
you who followed my blonde
streaks to the horizon, or even
you who put them there in
directly when it's never
quite.