Some people write in
sharpie or mechanical graphite, or else, just a classic 2B pencil.
Me, I'm a pink magic marker kind of girl. A fan of hyphens and
parentheses, capital letter malcontent, comma abuser on occasion. I
used to dream about living somewhere/when- anywhere but the here and
now. But with a butterfly release from clutching fingers into before
the turn of the millennium (before my crayon box naivety turns to the
ashes of cynicism) springtime air, I'll live in this moment, thank
you. I still dream about a boy. About a boy. Yes, I'm dredging up
that tired cliché. But, I'm different, I'm an original, I
swear. I embroidered flowers on my denim knees and melted wax around
my sneakers in the sun (a sea of puddled color.) I'm open: to you,
to us, to everything: here, there, and in between. I'll quit
outlining highlighter hearts on my English notebook, if that's what
makes you uncomfortable. If I could, I'd press my palms to yours'
and we (my favorite pronoun, you'd claim with a grin) would
feel the neon pulse of two people holding passion hostage.
Skin-to-skin contact, make my neurons spark. My eyes smolder, my pen
sulks, and I reach out to you in cable knit mittens, complaining of
loneliness and melancholy. You- pretend to understand. Isn't it
funny that we both act as though if we ever stop spinning, the world