I haven’t said it out loud
but when I turn 20,
I want poetry.

I want you to observe
The precision with which
I draw my cupid’s bow
And how I hold my lollipops
like cigarettes between my teeth.

I want you to know
that I realized a perfect date
is driving anywhere with you
through the intersecting streets of South Jersey,
and we can talk
or sit silently.

I want you to make
me mixed CD’s.
Know my music taste,
but also add on songs that
make you think of me.

I want you to light
my eyes up,
even irrationally.
I don’t want to have to fear
that I’m not “too sweet.”

I want you to write
songs about me,
lyrical sonnets put to melody.
Pablo Neruda meets Tchaikovsky.
Play them on piano, viola, or

On my 20th birthday,
I’m not going to tell you
that I want poetry.
But I’m going to hope
that someone,
some day,
might think these things
and write about me.


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