I fell in love with this girl.

There's this girl
I fell in love with
on the internet.
She doesn't know me
and I've never met her
just know about her
from an ex of mine
who used to be hers
before they fell out
un-forever-entwined.
I fell in love with
her fearlessness,
and the way her eyes
say everything she can't
not that she wouldn't
just that she can't
because it's the internet
and she's trapped
freeze-framed,
this girl that
I fell in love with.
She's younger than me
and older than me
and wiser and smarter
and dumber by halves too,
because I wouldn't make
the mistakes he told me
she did, but you better believe
I make some she'd never
dream of trying.
I fell in love with
this girl, and I didn't
realize it at first
didn't know it was love
not just unhealthy infatuation
with a boy - an old boy,
but still a boy -
thought maybe it was something
simpler to explain over the
dinner table on Sunday nights.
I fell in love with
this girl, mom, and she's
worse than you imagined
my last guy to be.
I fell in love with
this girl, dad, and she's
going to be the ruin of me
for all that she doesn't know
I exist yet.
I fell in love with
this girl, sis, and she's
gorgeous, inside and out
the way you are.
I fell in love with
this girl, and I'm not sure
if it was her name, or her
smile, but I'm drowning now
and I suddenly I don't want
to be saved.

This is a postcard poem II

IX.
This is a postcard poem
that was purposefully
misaddressed so I can tell
you, instead of him, just
how much I miss you
because it's been far too
long already and I'd
still cross the world by
foot for you - for him.


X.
This is a postcard poem
in memory of the Lamp
Guy who goes from dorm
room to dorm room to
steal lightbulbs that
have gone bad, to replace
them with good bulbs
so that all the students
can study - thanks, man.

This is a postcard poem

I'm trying something new.
As much as I love the way words look on a screen, I love the way it feels to compose on paper even more.
I've started my postcard poems.
The plan is to make two a night every day until the end of the semester. Maybe more, maybe less. Then I'll send them out to people I don't know. People who might not care. But it's a start, isn't it?

My poems for tonight were on blue cards.

I.
This is a postcard poem
a composition without
discernible meaning, but
of some import to a
faceless writer, hidden
in a neverland she's
always longed to escape
from.

II.
This is a postcard poem
Possibly plagiarized from
a pilgrim's mind as he
placed each foot before
the other on his perilous
journey towards a summit
he later found was
downhill.