Writing

Instead of studying for the test

that I completely forgot about,

that is first period tomorrow morning,

I'm going to write a poem.

Because what else would I do? Study?

Hell no.

Let's be serious here.

I saw a post on Pinterest today about how they want people to love the mundane things about them, and I crave that from deep in some cavernous region in my heart.

The stars are reflected in the glimmer of the headlamp's light on the snow

And the air is frozen-- it feels like the sensation of holding your hand under water so burning hot that

it begins to feel cold

somehow.

There’s a lot I wanted to do,

but somehow my feet stayed still.

Days slipped through my fingers

like sand I forgot to hold.

People ask where I’ve been—

I tell them I’m “fine,”

living in a city I built

Kael’s stone blazed blue in his hand, steady and unyielding. He grinned at me, even now. “Three… two… one—”

I unfolded the fragile page, Kael leaning close as the lantern light caught the writing. My mother’s hand—sharp, deliberate strokes—spread across the paper. I swallowed hard and began to read aloud: