If I accepted every idea of Pennsylvania poems, I’d have enough work to fill a book with sorrows.
But I resist the urge to jot every name that’s done me wrong, for the list would be short but firm.
Instead, I’ll inhale the snowdrift.
And in another world, I’ll brush my fingers against the melting piles against my winter boots.
Hugging my shoulders will be the flannel shirt that still fits, loose and large enough for both our hearts to make blanket forts.
We’ll use chain necklaces and cross earrings to pin it all together.
And I’ll slip on yet another ice patch as the UPS man drives away, and I won’t even care because inside that box is something you’ll eventually inherit.
You’ll call to check up on my existence, something I’m sure you never even cared about.
We’ll make plans to get ice cream two Sundays from now, and you’ll order red velvet, just to impress my taste buds when our tongues meet.
I’ll forget my lesson to never trust another Gemini, and I’ll continue loving the flakes nestled between your blonde strands.
I’ll smile when the sound of your mother’s Jeep rolls into the driveway, and I’ll forget to regret handing her that school paper the next morning.
The next week you’ll remember how much you relied on me to find yourself, and I will finally be at home.