Hello there, Blue eyes. It doesn't have to make sense.

the girls, with their prim-postured simpers and click-clack
nails, rip away at the sunshine, snatch the light
from her eyes. you waste conversations, like tissues
but oh-so-much-more precious than they. she takes the
circles from your eyes, and paints in shades of grey,
the vision of her day.

classes tug at the strings of your cognizance, as you
float, barely aware, ethereally, from each class
to each class, gotta pass, gotta pass, the buzzing bees
the voices of the students, every student with a dream,
every soul, it would seem.

(what i would give for a cup of coffee,
and beneath her locker, she confesses she hates it)

of wildest dreams, in transmissions made of scratchy phone
static, you talk, of College, of Writing, capitalized and
hallowed be thy name, these hushed wishes, these whispered
pleas, the conversations go through trailing strands of copper wire,
Cuprum, 29 on that table of elements, you've got science on the mind.

she makes
(mouth full of marbles on your static line
mind full of enlightenments, Renaissances, Thoreau, Locke,
those dead guy ideas, those dates so long ago, English,
ions, valence electrons, jumbled through your connection)
that sound of laughter you add to your collection.

~Mina