Poems never turn out the way you want them. See, tonight could be a beautiful poem. I always feel smallest when I'm walking alone in the twilight and the sky glows a darker and darker blue. I listen to the same song over and over on these nights because the acoustic guitar, piano, and the accordian know how to describe me tonight so much better than I myself can. I feel so infinite and mortal and alive all at the same time but somehow I am not smothered by my philosophical feelings. The thoughts are big but I can fit them into the simplicity of this song, tonight, because the poet knows what I mean. He can put it all into words the way I can't so I sit back and listen.

Maybe I am looking for you. I can't say I wouldn't like to see you tonight. Even though my hair is all swept up by the wind that rockets through this valley and screws up your hair, too. Anyways, I still look pretty and I don't want to admit it but yeah, I dressed up for you. I do it a lot. I dress cute and pretty and I pull up my hood 'cuz I know you like that kind of thing, I how I act so ghetto to please you, make you laugh. I tell you where I'm going so you can say, "Let me come, too."

But I'm all alone tonight, just me and the poem. That's all I've got, anyway. I can't prove there's anything else that exists. I'm locked inside this head for my whole life and I can't count on ever knowing anything more than this. I can't prove anything I don't know really does exist. I know this town, I know this song, I know the sound of your voice. I've known other towns, other songs, and other voices but they've crumbled for me and fallen through my fingers. I don't remember them so well anymore. All I've got now is this, and someday there'll be other towns, songs, and voices and I won't have these ones anymore, and that scares me. I know I'll be homesick for this moment tomorrow and it makes me sad.

I bounce between musings of existentialism and the simple frustration and longing to hear your skateboard wheels on the street behind me or your voice calling my name suddenly. I want the cell phone nestled in my back pocket to vibrate with a sudden, pleading message from you: Cum ovr nao or something equally endearing.

Someday cell phones are going to be an ancient technology, something of antiquity, lost for all eternity. Maybe we'll look back on them with fondness and nostalgia in a post-apocalypse world, or we'll be damning them for causing our downfall. We'll be like the people of Atlantis, the lost continent; the sad, lonely scientists despretely searching and learning. For them, science 

and religion were one and the same and maybe I don't know much about the world but for me that seems better. Maybe the very things that brought their undoing also brought them happiness.

I wander up my street and end up at home where the world will become pure noise again. See, I'm homesick for the instant before where I was aware of nothing more than myself and the universe. Now I've got to worry about homework and whether or not you'll text me later.

All I've got to keep me company is the thought that maybe you've had these same thoughts, and maybe that's what will finally bring us together.