When nerves cancelled my plans,
I imagined that another, separate me
made the drive to St. Paul.

My other me entered the room with the
the more-important-than-things-really-are candles.
My other me was confident; her cheeks were flushed.
She made conversation; she made you laugh.

Maybe she even found out the truth,
knows things now that this me doesn’t.

And this me resents her surety, is angry
that she didn’t take the chance, take the drive,
take the hand of the boy in St. Paul
instead of the pen to write this jealous poem.

writer girl