Afternoon.

Somedays

I wake up and I am alone,

Far from people in the mornings.

Somedays I put on tights and a skirt

And feel older.

I wipe away the tired look

And brush my hair.

In the mornings

I leave my house alone

And drive my car

Into school,

Listening to npr.

Thinking.

Sometimes I pretend I am going to

A job.

A job where I edit film and collaborate with people

Who are pleasant.

This is first period.

I am still mostly asleep.

I come home often,

And am alone.

I play music loudly

And sometimes I sing.

It's ok to be alone in the afternoons.

I get things done this way.

And sometimes I plug my guitar into the amp,

With the volume way too high

And I let the grit and feedback roll over me like a thunderclap

-The first one of a summer storm-

As I mess with the tangle of wires.

Then I play little chords that sometimes sound like

Twinkling birds, and sometimes sound like

Nothing at all.

I've pretended that you and I were planning a trip

To New York City.

It would be awkward at first,

But then it would be splendid.

Today.

We stared at each other for a good solid minute.

And you gave me a wide smile.

It was strange, in a way.

And I almost blushed because I was already flustered

And then then we just proceeded to stand and gawk.

A few words were said.

They were enough.

Some times,

When I wake up

And drive

And come home

And play my guitar

I think profusely of you.

In my mind, you keep me company.

Peculiar true.

I cannot help it.

And I often wonder,

Do you ever think of me?

Cliche and ridiculous and petty.

But it begs to be asked.

Do I ever cross your mind?