Classes start again,
and I'm followed by the knowledge
that for the first time
I have missed my goal.

I have steadily written more poems each year,
by differing margins,
and I'm sad that last year,
the year with such change and emotional upheaval
should be the year I falter.

What will happen the calm years?
Will there be calm years?
Perhaps I should stretch my poetic muscles,
take up a new theme
or device to practice
for when my life is contentment
not frantic anxiety.

Sick and sad,
n'aime pas,
wrapped in a blanket
alone on my couch,
New Year rung in alone,
my love a thousand miles away.

It's easier to leave this time,
not because I miss him less,
but because I've left and returned once
so I know he'll be there again
when the trajectory of my life
brings me back to his continent.

I'm in his arms again,
surrounded by a home-
laughter,
the quick patter of running and loved feet,
a playful dog
(who is so sweet and such a lady)-
I am welcomed beyond what I deserve,
what I expected.
I feel like they want me to belong.

I don't want to leave.

If I never have to deal with planes again,
I will be satisfied,
despite their amazing
and welcome power
to make the world a smaller place.

I will miss her,
my roommate,
when she leaves.

I know it is good for her,
but I can still be sad.
She was my friend,
helped me to be better.

May her roads forward be smooth.

Do I really like coffee?
Or do I just like
the caffeine and sugar
and only put up
with the coffee taste for their sake?