Untitled Nights in public at outdoor coffee tables under the moon and stars and heavens do little for me. The adequate talk you always do when I ask how things are working out, while I, alone, don't even listen, confusing myself about the raindrops glistening off your nose that no one would notice but me. I don't particularly care when you shred the napkin into little pieces because it's your nervous habit; I love it, and it drives me insane. How could I possibly tell you that I need for you to shut up and listen to me for once? This fire in my heart is burning some really nasty incense that my dad stormed in and put out. Constantly, it's burned out all the time, and it leaves that waxy, sticky, cloudy resadue when I sit alone, disappointed in the dark.
Caroline Seagle at age fifteen is certainly one of the youngest authors to appear on these pages.
Could you help her with a title?
Comment on her use of the line.