sipping apple tea i can't taste because
i burnt my tongue two days ago, i am
trying to ignore my chapped lips by
daydreaming about a boy who
may or may not exist like honey
at the bottom of this cup. i think we think
the same thoughts because i read
his interview in the school newspaper and
we spoke, di- and mono-syllabically, about
writing and words (like the ones from
love songs i've wound around
my fingers so tightly they're turning purple).
but how do you know? the answers
aren't in the back like a textbook
(or maybe i'm on an even question, and god
only lets us know the odds, the way it is
in the pre-cal book). thoughts are lazy on
long weekends like this when i'm waiting
for the cold to wear thin and i'm always surprised
it's dark outside. i can't decide when
i want to be, but where my verdicts
are fickle, time is not, and the clock keeps
telling me it's time to go. i'm tired but
i don't think i'll be able to fall asleep because
questions keep dripping slowly like
there's a leaky faucet i can't find and the echoes
go on forever. now there's so much water
i can barely breathe; i'll have to concentrate on
inhaling, exhaling (yes, just like that)until
i'm with the metronome again. then i can
chip the daydreams from the walls and carry on.