She talks a mile a minute
And she’s 170 miles away

We exchange hellos quickly in-between spurts of laughter
She says it’s been too long since we talked
I make a joke
She’s 160 miles away

She asks me about that thing I wanted to tell her
There are a lot of things I wanted to tell her
I color in the pages of my past with caricatures
And we laugh together at my idiocies
She’s 140 miles away

I ask her about her life, what’s new, what’s not new, I don’t really care what she talks about
I just want her to talk
She’s never been good at telling stories, but I can tell she’s gotten better
Probably from practice
I feel nostalgic for the times I heard the rough draft of her tales
She’s 120 miles away

She has to go
But goodbyes are just hyper retellings of whatever last minute thoughts we possess
Matching tattoos
Birthday wishes
Mixed drinks
Muffled laughter
She’s 115 miles away

She talks a mile a minute
But she’s still 110 miles away


Short haired redhead with glasses at Goodwill

Inspired by a craigslist missed connections story

 I don’t go to Goodwill that often, but I love clothes and money doesn’t love me, so here’s the solution.

I just finished my shift at the frozen yogurt store. It’s been a less than thrilling day; one of the machines levers was stuck and the yogurt wouldn’t stop pouring out, so I tried catching it with my hands, but of course that didn’t work. Our bathrooms were all taken and my shift was running up, so I just slapped some hand sanitizer on and hoped for the best.

It wasn’t my smartest decision because now here I am…in this goodwill staring at you, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and I’m afraid if I introduce myself you’ll want to shake my sticky froyo-covered hand.

Your hair is cut short; it tucks in right at your chin, and I’ve never seen anyone rock bangs the way you do, but then again maybe it’s just the beauty of your red hair. I’m staring at you, and noting how I shouldn’t be staring at you so intently, but you look up. You’re holding a pair of jeans in your hand…they’re a light wash denim that have been worn in, and you lock eyes with me. You smile a little and then push up your red-rimmed glasses that I know should clash with your hair’s coloring, but instead make it shine more so than without.

You have the air about you that one might be intimidated by; I think about giving you my number, but I’m too shy for the likes of that…and you’re probably already taken, with your charisma and charm.

I look down quickly, hoping you’ll look away so I can examine you once again, but when I glance back up you’ve turned and tucked yourself into a dressing room. I would wait and see what the jeans look like and maybe introduce myself, but I’m so afraid my cake-batter aroma will scare you off.

So, I’m writing on craigslist, maybe you like craigslist? Maybe it’s a fun past time to see what other people are up to…I’ve only just discovered it, seeing as ‘how do I find the girl I just fell in love with at a goodwill’ didn’t yield as many results as I’d have preferred.

Maybe you’ll see this and we can grab coffee…or a drink, if you like bars, just anything but frozen yogurt…


The human in the sports attire that smelled like cake-batter and stared at you

(p.s I hope the jeans fit.)

Wedding Dress Dilemma

My sister and I weren’t the best musical performers out there; which was usually why we ended up playing in subway stations for some extra pocket change. She was the singer and I played guitar; we weren’t good by any means, but we were entertaining enough that some people would stop and listen for a bit, before walking away and maybe deciding to drop some change into my guitar case.

We did this about twice a week, on a good week, sometimes her throat would hurt from her unprofessional singing methods, or I would catch a headache from the array of smells a subway station could claim, but as often as we could; we were performing.

We decided to go and play a couple of songs in the underground one bleak night. It was a random day, not one of our usual performing nights, but she wanted to sing and, being the professional I was, I went along with it. The subway station near our petite place was different, to say the least, which is why I wasn’t entirely surprised to see what I did.

When I walked down the stairs, guitar case in hand, my eye was immediately drawn to the girl standing, rather confidently, in a white wedding dress. She wasn’t strikingly gorgeous or anything of that nature, but it was hard to miss her. The native New Yorkers didn’t even blink an eye when they walked past, but I couldn’t keep mine off her.

“The nut-houses you find in a subway station.” My sister commented, as we went to find a good location to perform.

“I wonder what happened, to leave her here in a wedding dress.” I replied, barely being able to walk forward with my eyes still stuck on her.

I tried to push her out of my thoughts as we started playing through our first song, but I saw her wander over; her white dress flowing behind her as it flicked up the dirt of the subway underground. She stood some feet away from us, but close enough for me to see the mascara that had soaked up under her eyes. I couldn’t keep performing with the need to know what had happened growing stronger.

“We should take a quick intermission.” I suggested, slinging the guitar off my shoulder and forcing it into my sister’s hands.

“Hi.” I said hastily as I approached. She smiled, emptily, but awaited my obvious questioning. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you wearing a wedding dress?”

“Oh, well today was my wedding day.” She stated. I waited for her to continue, but was annoyed when she didn’t give me the thorough explanation I had been hoping for.

“May I ask why you’re in the subway station and not at your wedding reception?” She laughed softly, but quickly fell into a fit of tears. I didn’t know what to do.

“He stood me up. I waited for him, at the alter…my whole family was there, you know? But he decided, clearly, today was not his day to get married.” It sounded like the first time she had pieced the words together, because clearly I did not know.

“Oh…I’m sorry.” I should have guessed that was the case, but still why was she in the subway station, what did it have to offer her?

“You and your sister sounded lovely.” I was done with the conversation, but I didn’t know how to ease my way out.

“Thanks, we actually need to start playing again, but it was nice to meet you-” I tried to walk away, but she grabbed my hand.

“Would you maybe want to do me a favor?” Her eyes, still watery from tears, showed true desperation.

I tried to tell her no, that I thought I should have gone back to playing guitar with my sister, but she wouldn’t have it.

“I’ll pay you. It’ll be like a gig.” Her words were spilling out and I could hardly keep up. “All you have to do is come to my wedding, show my parents someone good. They never met him anyways, I could say you got lost on…on-the subway…you’re not from here anyways and navigation must’ve been hard. Yes, they’d believe that. That’s all you have to do; pretend to be my fiancé. Then I’ll find him and we can just tell my parents you got facial surgery or something like that. They’re from New York, they’d believe it.”

“Wait, what?” I tried to pull my arm away from her, but she seemed to be gripping it with her life.

“Just come get fake married to me.” Her white teeth against her bright red lipstick made her look even more psychotic with the black specks running down her eyes.

I didn’t say no, and maybe, in retrospect, I should have been more clear; I shrugged. I told her if she desperately needed me, as she so seemingly did, that I would fake marry her.

To be honest I didn’t expect things to end so…interestingly. She didn’t find her fiancé, I’m not even sure if she actually had one to begin with, she married me…and her family seemed cool with it, my sister was just glad I could pay rent for a few months before I moved out and in with my wife. 

Crazier things have happened…maybe not to me, but I sure do have one hell of a ‘first-time-we-met’ story. Our tenth anniversary is next week; I bought her a subway ticket. Is it love? Well, who can say really…

To: Mom

In the beginning;

You taught me how to speak

You taught me how to say my name, even though it sounded like ‘Ewibabeth’

You taught me how to tie my shoes, how to ride a bike, how to laugh

You showed me how to be a good friend, even when the other first graders weren’t as nice

You taught me how to be strong, even when the monsters of my  middle school memories were too much

You showed me patience, when I had none

You showed me grace, when I deserved none

You taught me how to love myself

You taught me how to love


You’re teaching me how to drive, even when I don’t know which way to turn the steering wheel

You’re teaching me how to be an independant woman, (who don’t need no man)

You’re showing me trust

You’re showing me that a love for coffee is worth the inordinate amount of money you let me spend

You’re teaching me how to pick my battles, because some things are not worth arguing over, (no matter how badly I try to make them)

In the end;

You’ve taught me how to be me

A Different Presidential Race

Inspired by a fun prompt I found on the interweb…thanks tumblr 

    She couldn’t remember a single thing about any of the presidential candidates. There was the one with the big nose, the one with the loud mouth, and the one who didn’t seem to talk at all. She knew she should have been paying attention; after all it was up to high-schoolers to choose the next president, but she couldn’t find it in her to care.

She knew she was supposed to care about her next president and the future of her country, but she still thought it was stupid that kids between the ages of fourteen and eighteen were given the fate of the nation. Something about the ‘untouched political opinions’ teenagers had, but the parents were still talking down everyone’s ears.

She’d given up on voting before she’d even turned fourteen. Everyone was trying to tell her which way to vote, who was the better candidate, who would best equip the country for the future, but she didn’t know…and none of their speeches gave her any insight anyways. Her first round of voting she eenymeenyminymo’d her way through.

At least now the older generations were forced to take her generation more seriously, after all, she was in charge of choosing their future. Talks of ‘well your generation’ this and ‘your generation’ that quickly disappeared. The country depended on the youth, which was nice, but even with that in mind she couldn’t concentrate on the ballot in front of her.

The first name she vaguely could recall, he made awful ads providing no information of himself, but only pointing out the flaws of his opponents. She didn’t find that altogether admirable. The second name was the guy who tried to sell them on his campaign. He tried to relate to her generation in, what could only be described as, an utterly failed attempt. In the end it felt like he was mocking who they were, something else she didn’t find all that admirable.

The only name left was of someone she couldn’t remember at all. He must have slid by, so unmemorable that nothing positive or negative could be attributed to him. He’ll win. She thought. But only because no one can think of a reason not to vote for him. But she could think of many; just because someone snuck by didn’t mean he was a good choice, he just hid behind the stupidity of the others. He didn’t clearly state what he stood for, which was almost as wrong in her eyes.

She stared at the ballot for two seconds longer before placing it back down, unmarked. She knew not voting didn’t improve the situation at hand, but she simply couldn’t choose between three candidates who were equally as unimpressive.

The Weeks

There are good weeks and there are bad

The good come tumbling through the door, unafraid of making a grand entrance

They take a seat at the head of the table, serving themselves the largest portion.

They make amiable conversation with the ones sitting beside them; there’s the bad weeks, the ok weeks, and the weeks she can’t seem to remember, but the good weeks make conversation with them all the same.

The bad weeks tend to mope in the corner, making their entrance subtly, in a failed attempt of trying to stay out of focus, but she always seems to notice them

They take their petite portion, even though it seems larger than the one of the good, and eat it silently while the good carries on the conversation

The bad weeks will attempt to say something, just trying to fit into cordial dinner conversation, but will always seem to say the wrong thing

When the good weeks bring up a joyous occasion, the bad weeks almost always seem to sneak in with an equally depressing one

The ok weeks get by.

They don’t partake in much table-talk, but listen respectfully all the same

The ok weeks remember everything, the good and the bad, but never seem to speak up about either.

The weeks sit together all the same; laughing, moping, remembering

She invites them all to the table, hoping at least one will stay.