Wordy Wednesday (“I Miss You”)

This past week has been a busy one. I can’t talk about some of what’s been going on because they aren’t my stories to tell, but amongst the things I can talk about: one of my best friends in the whole world visited over the weekend, and it was really nice to see her because we hardly ever get to hang out anymore. And–oh yeah–I (along with like half the people I know) scored tickets to the Detroit premiere of Divergent next week. Which is like ADKRUALDNRKLSJR-level exciting. Oh my gosh.

This week’s Wordy Wednesday is a poem called “I Miss You.”


You used to mean everything, and now you mean nothing

and I don’t know which I miss more—you

or the freedom of not having to remember you.

Sometimes I get so caught up in

living in the moment

that I forget that the next moment

might be worth living in too.




Wordy Wednesday (“Poetry”)

Hey there! This week’s Wordy Wednesday is going to be a collection of shorter “poems” (really just a bunch of random little stanzas I’ve got saved places) about a collection of random things. Most of these are from my phone, typed haphazardly during vacation trips or at two in the morning when I can’t sleep.

Sorry for not writing more of an intro–I’ve got like a bazillion hours of homework to do today, already, so, yeah. Yay for college.


It sounds like summer

and smells like graduation,

So many moments you were

afraid to live because they were already

memories you were afraid to lose


My life is


less than


right now.


New York City

is a beautiful cliche.


The plight of the writer

is that the air, the trees, the birds

are full of stories, heavy

on your chest, pressing

your fingers into the Earth

as roots, and you

may only choose one to breathe in–


against the screaming in your ears.

Only one against the


Only one against

the weight, to lift



to fly.


The more we preserve

of the past,

the less we have

for the future.


Life encourages life.


Every minute I spend in New York City

wakes me up, fills my lungs with

air purer than feeling, a gas that somehow

makes oxygen heavy, that forces

my eyes open, wider, wider, with

every inhale–and the corners of

my mouth lift higher, freer, fuller,

go, go, go but now


with every exhale.

Stay here

in the magic, in the moment;

don’t leave and be ordinary.

Please don’t be






Things feel slow

while they’re happening.

It’s only when you look back

that they sped by






My life is not a love story.

It’s not a Nicholas Sparks novel.

I don’t want it to be.

I like where I am

without that part.