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Lindsey

If you don't learn to write your own story, someone else will write it for you

3 poems·Since May 2013
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The Baltimore Sun

May 20, 2013
I pick the foam of the old, blue seats and watch the rain hit the window, running down slowly. The street lights being to flicker as the sky turns to dusk, and the plane drifts to the ground. I feel myself sinking down low to the edge of the seat. I look around at all of the people waiting to be picked up. He'll be here soon, and I'm more excited than ever. I flip through my People magazine. I can't wait any longer. I try not to shut my eyes but I can't help myself. I wake up to the sound of a woman over the loud speaker, announcing what planes were beginning to board. I look to my left and I see him walking towards me. I jump up, nearly knocking over my cup of water. That blue, dirty jacket looks better on him than it ever has before and the smell of his cologne fills my nose.
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