You pinned me against a window full of wedding dresses; 

Hauntingly delicate like sheer curtains with the weight of marble and impossible to reverse decisions.

My head and my heart broke out in a race but did not communicate about the direction-

I run as fast as I can toward the one I know I can catch.

Fingers turning white from pressure at the knuckles, begging them to not skip ahead, to the part where I fantasize you to death. 

The poet in me kissed you back and I will continue to roll ball point pen and tongue over memories of you for months. 

You held my face in your hands and spoke love into my future. Talking into my mouth, you taste a lot like hope and surrender. 

Somehow I am homesick for places I have never been; I am lost in New York City. There is snow in my hometown and it feels like I am cheating on the hydrangeas. 

You feel sneaky, pressed between my Instagram story and the messages you neglected to respond to and the 7,860.40 km or so that you put between us.

I keep hoping you’ll be home for Christmas and maybe by then I’ll forget you have existed. 

I think you're in Paris, possibly with a fiance and my tenderness feels pinned to your accent. 

But this is just like me, to be finding signs in my tea leaves, again.

Challenging for me to discern between signs of the universe or if this is just another poem I found in a man. 

In all of my letters of love to the lord I forgot to ask, can he also be a citizen?

You tell me you would marry me on the beach and I let myself believe you. 

Over cappuccinos and stale scones- 
I think I could be like the old woman in your story, the one you met on the train, wondering if you have seen the brief and reckless love I have somehow misplaced, from Bogata, Columbia.