i exist [as the definition of nonexistence]

A Poem for Kate.

It's close to eight and I'm intoxicated by your eyes.

Forget that.

It's a sunday and I'm watching you laugh with such

blissful confidence.

Forget that, too.

It's a rather cold night and I'm wondering at how you

live your life the way you do, how you

move so clumsily and gracefully all at once, how you

grin with your entire face and

you say you aren't special, but you really,

really are.

Damn.

Maybe you should forget that as well.

It should be just another night, but now that you exist

there's nothing else but the nagging thought that

"I want to know this girl, but I'm just one of many."

Take a number, wait in line.

You're not special enough to get VIP access.

So I take my number, sit patiently and watch you

glow from the other side of the computer screen.

I sit and crumble under the knowledge that

you're smiling for everyone, but no one in particular.

I sit and wonder what it would be like, to be you.

I clutch my number desperately, a lifeline,

wondering if this is how it feels to be a fan of someone online.

I'm used to the knowledge of being nobody.

I've got a collection of numbers, a collection of faces trapped in my laptop.

But there's a multiverse out there where I reach out to you--

and you notice

and I'm not just a face, but eyes you recognize, seek out.

I become a normal part of the ebb and flow.

You should really

really

forget all of this,

but I think

I think--

No, let's stop thinking. It's too late for thoughts,

too early for midnight confidence.

It's eight and I'm starting to think this is a bad idea.

But it's almost a new year

and I made a promise

"Talk to her."

I don't converse well, though.

I'm just a girl made of ink, quoting dead poets and

clinging to my invisibility.

Strange that you make me want to be seen.

Strange that a girl so similar to me, yet so

vastly different

could make me want to fly,

when normally I'm content with

standing still.

What I'm trying to say

in this shitty poem

this 8:01 p.m. rambling jumble of words

I could never

say in a conversation

is that.

Shit--

I think you're pretty

remarkable beautiful amazing

perfectly imperfect

rad.

But

you can go ahead

and forget all of this.

I'm content in being a supportive fan.

A faraway friend

shit

stranger who cares?

Good enough.  

--

AKA the moment when I wrote a poem about a girl named Kate, who deserved so much more than I could put into words..