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.

AWP's Questions:

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.