It starts with a note-to-self
but quickly it twists into poetry
Your city is like a
yellow lights and cigarette butts and
these red tables
like a Parisian café.
juggling my inappropriate metaphors
real life - women's rights, academia and
taming a wild heart -
you will come to me in flashes:
your glasses titled like your smile; your
hair, unkempt; and your opinions
You're the traveler, I am the vagabond.
You know where you're going, I don't.