by Yukiko Yoshinaga
Loves me. Loves me not. Loves me. Loves me not. Loves me. In less than a week I'll be at the Berkeley Amtrak station with my suitcase and my guitar; I'll lock myself in the bathroom and paint my lips and eyelashes before stepping out of the car in majestic corduroy deshabille and when I spot you in the mess of strangers for the first time after three months of I miss you too; I'll still be in like with you and you'll still be gay.
Yukiko Yoshinaga wishes she knew what's good for her.