Craters on the Moon

I ran for miles today, my feet cycling through the cross-trainer while I listened to "Gangsters and Thugs" and Sleater Kinney's cover of "More Than A Feeling." Karen and I picked up Davida and ate a late dinner (brown rice with mustard greens, carrots, onions, and squash, salad with raspberry vinaigrette, lemon pepper chicken - all organic), showered, and watched "The Life Aquatic." We both sighed towards the end, as each crew member placed their hands on Steve in the fading glow of the Jaguar Shark. Karen said, "What a beautiful moment," and she was right.

I have been going through old books of mine, each one dated on the inside of the front cover (date of purchase, date first read, date of something). "The Rules of Attraction," bought over Winter break of last year. Passages underlined throughout: pg. 164, "I wonder if everyone goes through this much hell at college?" Pg. 261, "No one ever likes the right person," I say. "That's not true," he says. "I like you."

I got an e-mail from a friend today. He said, So I had a dream where we happened to run across each other at some type of camp ground, and decided to waltz together as our "hello."

I've never waltzed before and I can't imagine waltzing hello with anyone. Normally my hellos are subdued, contained, ritualistic. I greet the same people in the same ways, over and over. I keep myself closed up inside, rarely letting anyone touch me in a way that matters. There are hellos called out from bicycles, one hand waving and the other steadying my handlebars. There are kisses hello, leaning across the front seat of the car to brush my lips against Alex's cheek. There are, rarely, hugs and sometimes high fives. Mostly, I avert my eyes and hope for the best.

I haven't written in my diary in almost three days. This morning April called and I paced in the hallway while talking to her, thinking of the book on my desk with the yellow card catalogue card wedged into it, marking a poem by April Lindner. I can't remember when or why I saved it, but there it was.

First Kiss by April Lindner

This collision of teeth, of tongues and lips,
is like feeling for the door
in a strange room, blindfolded.
He imagines he knows her
after four dates, both of them taking pains
to laugh correctly, to make eye contact.
She thinks at least this long first kiss
postpones the moment she'll have to face
four white walls, the kitchen table,
its bowl of dry petals and nutmeg husks,
the jaunty yellow vase with one jaunty bloom,
the answering machine's one bloodshot eye.