Nursing a broken heart, I smoke Marlboro Reds. I said I will smoke them until I get over This Boy. I think my mind in circles remembering all the things I said and he said, and if one different word, one less mean, one gentler, one more persuasive, could have left my lips at the right time to change things. At least I am spending only minutes a day crying now instead of hours. I talk to my brother on the phone and he recognizes the Marlboro Reds, the guitar playing, the sleeplessness, and the not eating. My family does not take heartbreak well, and I know I love too hard and too fast.
At Stone Soup last night met Erin Reardon. Loved her poems, her delivery. We share a fondness for whiskey and afterward my friend and I went with her friends to have a drink.
I read my poem about the Atlantic. A lot of people came up to me and said they liked it. A nice older woman said I was "hot." She had no idea how much I needed to hear that.
she turned around to look at him as he was walking away -- she said "this ain't the end, we'll meet again someday on the avenue"