for my seventeenth birthday, a certain boy bought me a poetry book.
it was small enough to carry in my pocket – he told me this was so that i’d always feel inspired, no matter where i was.
it was a book of poems children had picked out by themselves.
some were two lines long.
others lasted pages.
in the back of the book, he wrote one himself.
it was four lines long.
and it was pretty bad.
i think that was the day i fell in love with him.
hey kid, you’ll never live this down –
i don’t think anyone knew
we’ve got a history of train wrecks hidden in these pretty smiles.
i miss you more than you know.
