I miss you like I miss needles.

It's easy to get lost here,
amongst letters and punctuation
where fluctuation gives way
to rhymes and schemes
and bigger things
than what we study on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

She walks and doesn't remember how she got here.
So she turns around
looking for someone,
perhaps the man with his beard.
The one she clutches her knife for.

Wasn't this supposed to rhyme? Or to flow?
Her portfolio scratches
against cold pavement--
a rat trap.
What if she steps on it?
This isn't really where she wants to be.

She wants to be here
and she wears the pages
like a petticoat,
gathering them around her
like-- Erasing lines,
when she knows
she should not
erase what comes naturally.

God's gifts.

Maybe hers isn't to get what she wishes for.
But instead slave over
the words and the
format, until the affair...
Until she has was she wants,
when she closes her eyes
and chews on a purple pencap
and waits for him to text her.