And of the fourteen hours of distance that make it
so easy to forget all about me
because I've been holding your hand for weeks
so you'll always come home. This year planes are too
expensive and for once I wish my mother ­understood
and I got better gas mileage and I could
make you remember the last time we kissed.
Because I remember, and remember your lips, and
the way we laughed at people
who just didn't get it. I'm afraid of New York
and all the pretty blondes in your dorm, and all the blonde
left my hair when I forgot to dye it again
since I was too busy thinking up ways to
make this stick.

Every day we talk about tomorrow and by midnight
we've forgotten how to love each other except to
hold onto every diamond ring and 3 a.m. ­confession
leaving you hungover with affection and by now
I have mastered the art of selective hearing.
I'm used to waking up next to you. I get drunk off the
smell of your shampoo and I cry
at least once a day at every Hallmark card and
TV show that reminds me of next year. And I'm afraid
of next year and all the what if's that
plague each conversation, each word tripping off our tongues
and I think of you.

I'm afraid of taking it back, and everything I've worked for
every relationship I've sacrificed
will never be enough for you to stay. Make me stay
and don't tell me yet that you don't think it will work,
instead tell me that you love me and that
I'm the most beautiful girl you've ever seen