I’d love to talk poetry with you.

I was looking.
Of course I was.

Typing your name like a reflex
I never unlearned,
hoping Google forgot
how many times I’ve searched.

And there you were:
a poem and your voice.

Five years is approaching.
Which is ridiculous.
What's more ridiculous is this.
This poem (mine, not yours).

I make breakfast with someone
who pronounces sestina wrong
in the most endearing way.

But still,
there’s your byline
like a paper cut
I keep tasting.

Glad the degree wasn’t just
a slow heartbreak
in workshop form.
Glad you’re out there

(in the District, uprooted from Brooklyn)
making perfect things sing. 

I will always read.

every line.