I wish I was a poem. I wish I could be summed in three stanzas and bring shimmering relief to literature students on dreary Monday mornings. I wish to be the sugar they sprinkle into tea they drink from carnival glass to make them relax. If only they could read and have me brush along their jawlines, tingle in their fingertips like the lit fuse on a firecracker. If they read me aloud I would taste of pureed flowers, frost thin and light with marigold their every spoken word.
(College tastes like burnt bagels and monsters. It’s wanting to run forever, but being unable to move. The lines are too long. Too slow. Sleep sticks like peanut butter to everyone’s brains and lashes. They’re zombies because they know the end is near, shuddering in panic from winter chills and confusion, so desperate for some meaning.)
I asked one of these people, a tattooed girl, if I could taste her breath. “Sorry, I’ve just run out,” she said, hot steam from her sweat misting windows she passed. With half hearted cigarette flicks, other girls drew in it. I didn’t tell her I really wanted to nip at her mouth so salty red could flow in tiny trickles from her open petal lips.
Everything is confusing...
(That’s okay. It’s not about the speed. It’s those whose breaths are calm saving this world.)