Lately, I’ve been living the poem instead of writing it. Staying out late, dancing under middle-of-nowhere stars, happening upon strangers, or letting them happen to me. For fall is coming, and perhaps the words on pages with it, but summer is for binging on experience then purging the stories she tells.

I spoke from the car in the driveway for this one, offering love and reflections after a palliative third date:

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And if that doesn’t feel worthy of your time, I also share the story of how I ended up leaving Queens with a backpack full of free weed and sky blue memories of a summer dress, patterned with daisies, worn by a French woman named Lelia.