It’s 2:47 a.m. in Seattle, and the rain is doing that thing where it taps the window like it’s trying to get my attention. I’ve been proofreading the same sentence for ten minutes—something about a duke’s brooding jawline—and all I can think is: I met you three days ago, and I already know the exact sound your laugh makes when you’re not sure if I’m joking.
I’m not. Mostly.
You left your umbrella at the café. The one with the crooked handle. I’ve been carrying it around like a stray cat I don’t know how to feed. It still smells like rain and your jacket. I’m not proud of how many times I’ve caught myself inhaling it. I am a professional comma-wrangler by day. By night, I’m apparently a woman who sniffs umbrellas and writes terrible poetry about strangers.
Strangers who quote old films and remember how I take my coffee. Black, no sugar, with a side of existential dread. You didn’t even flinch.
I walked home the long way tonight. Past the pier, past the bookstore that’s always closed when I need it. The rain was soft, the kind that soaks in slowly. I thought about your hands. Not in a scandalous way—okay, maybe a little scandalous. But mostly I thought about how you held the door for me and how your knuckles looked like they’d be good at typing or holding a pen. I bet you write letters. I bet they’re better than mine.
I don’t do this. Meet people. Let them see the mess. My apartment is a graveyard of unfinished poems and rejection slips. I sleep with a notebook under my pillow like a kid with a loose tooth. But you looked at me like I was a finished draft. Like you’d already decided to keep reading.
That’s terrifying. And a little intoxicating.
So here’s what I know: I’m 29, I live in a city that cries more than I do, and I’m currently wearing a sweater with a coffee stain that looks like a small country. I’m not mysterious. I’m just tired and hopeful in equal measure. But you—you make me want to leave the margins blank. Let the ink bleed.
If you’re reading this, I still have your umbrella. The rain isn’t letting up. And I’m running out of excuses not to text you back.
So tell me: what do you do at 3 a.m.? And do you believe in the kind of poetry that starts with a question you’re afraid to answer?
I’ll be here. Proofreading. Waiting.