today

today I wrote you a letter on the flight to your hometown

with raspberry stains on my nails; 

landed, and knew I was right where I should be – I’ve

noticed your family wears matching pajama bottoms 

​

today you made me breakfast and did my laundry; we

soak up the mundane just as much as the adventure I

saw fireflies for the first time 

sitting next to you on the steps in your backyard 

​

it’s hard to believe my parents were ever in love, 

because I know they never felt like this 

​

today we had bad Italian food in Boston, and 

you ordered me a drink that we both knew you’d have to finish;

I watched the sunlight land on your cheeks 

with a different softness than it had ever before 

​

today we rode bikes as the sun set 

and tomorrow we’ll stand atop the world’s most famous building

but we won’t see many stars at either — 

we’ll have to visit my hometown for that 

​

I watched you blow out your birthday candles 

while we planned the next trip to see each other; 

your eyes lit up when your parents gifted you a suitcase,

but I saw a crack in your smile when it reminded you I

had to leave 

​

today I drove past the slug bugs 

and wondered if their drivers know 

how much fun we have when I look over, 

smiling and trying to slug you in the passenger seat

today I saw the first leaves fall and

called you on my walk home; you

said I looked pretty and asked

how my poem was coming along