6 December 2018: As someone who a) worries she talks too much, b) worries she talks about things people find insignificant way too much, and c) makes lists of seemingly minor things to tell my favorite people every time I see them, I really feel this poem by Ada Limón. Here's the ending:
"...I know
you don’t always understand,
but let me point to the first
wet drops landing on the stones,
the noise like fingers drumming
the skin. I can’t help it. I will
never get over making everything
such a big deal."
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