Leave me in the cold with water damage, embedded in the rain.

There are one-hundred, sixty-nine books in my room.**

One-thousand, eight-hundred, twenty-eight books in my house.

One-thousand, four-hundred, forty-two books if you don't count the picture books; one-thousand, four-hundred, thirty-four if you don't include the library books; one-thousand, four-hundred, twenty-five not counting the ones that are borrowed; and one-thousand, four-hundred, twenty-three if you count out the ones that are stolen.

I'm going away to college soon. The idea of picking which books to bring and which books to leave behind is more terrifying to me than anything else.

Sometimes I think I'll miss them more than my friends or family.

Maybe that's the scariest idea of all.

P.S. Writer's block is a bitch. And so is counting books.
*173 as of 3/30
*178 as of 3/31

The streetlights hang above while we dance below.

the Wind has always been better than me.
Always knowing how to be all the things I can never get right.

He plays with my hair the way no one else does. He gives me the sweetest kisses in the world, so beautiful they make me almost want to cry.

the Wind kisses the way no one else can.

He can whistle, unlike me, even when I've always wished I could. the Wind sings me to sleep at night when there are too many nightmares and not enough moonlight or cold sheets.

He makes the trees speak, when they've always been so silent before.

the Wind's a tease.

He flips at my hair and the pages of my books, especially when I write about him, like he's embarrassed to be mentioned.

I like that the Wind is shy, like me. How even if he's cold, he's also gentle.

It makes me just the teeniest bit sad that no one will ever love him the way I do.

But maybe it's okay 
to keep the Wind 

all to myself.