She never asks questions. Remember the time Hermione turned into a cat? She made sure no one saw her. She regrew a whole arm’s worth of bones in one night. She can mend bones in a second. She even kicks out Dumbledore on some occasions. Just think about how many students get injured in Hogwarts every year and she just fixes them back up like new.
We all just need to take a second and thank Madam Pomfrey.
Missing someone is like hearing
a name sung quietly from somewhere
behind you. Even after you know
no one is there, you keep looking back
until on a silver afternoon like this
you find yourself breathing just enough
to make a small dent in the air….
I remember holding you against the sink,
with the sun soaking the window, the soft call
of your hips, and the intricate flickers
of thought chiming your eyes. Your mouth,
like a Saturday. I remember your
long thighs, how they
opened on the sofa, and the pulse
of your cry when you came, and
sometimes I miss you
the way someone drowning
remembers the air.
My soul is coffee with too much creamer.
It is made up of books that have been read so many times the bindings are falling apart, but the pages have never been dog-eared.
My soul is a cold, crisp, Blue Moon on draft with a slice of orange on a warm summer evening.
My soul can be found in stolen moments in the clean utility room at the hospital. Moments when I have a chance to catch my breath and clean my stethoscope with something more than an alcohol wipe.
My soul is a successful IV start.
My soul looks like painted fingernails. Never fake, never professional.
My soul rejoiced in throwing away my would-be purity ring, but still keeps my childhood rosary long after giving up on Catholicism.
My soul sounds like Glen Hansard singing Fitzcarraldo,
and wears red Converse shoes that still look as clean as the day I wore them to prom.
My soul is the difference between making love and fucking.
My soul pretends to hate being tickled, but loves the opportunity to stop it with kissing. My soul is the hot, steamy sweat of sex, and the welcome breeze from the window. My soul is guilty and carefree laughter, wondering aloud if the neighbors heard.
My soul is perpetually awkward and hopelessly unromantic.
My soul is not hard to see, if you know where to look.
My soul is me.
Dating as a Nursing student? Ain’t nobody got time for that.