Where are the girls who kissed me from the backseat of the car.

The girls who tell me to walk in

because they´re downstairs doing laundry

or sitting on the floor with a notebook and

philosophy spread in close circles

difficult to walk through.

I walk to the door at night and pass a frog by the porch light.

Because I almost stepped on it I was scared.

Where are the girls who write poems

and standing next to her car in the snow

the one with coffee

in the pre-morning looking forward to dreams