Popcorn

I left seventh grade 48 minutes ago. I felt like it was too soon. How far, already into summer I feel. My disorganized mind thought that I would have more time to like who I like, more time to get to know her.

Cold fingers tap at the pane of glass

smudges tear across the surface

he thinks that someone will hear him through the glass

he thinks this cold slab can bring him joy

when he is actually slipping

further

"Please remember 

the milk 

from the store," 

that's what the note says. 

But it doesn't matter anyway 

because his mind, his memory, stays sharp as a tack. 

For a long time 

I'd have vivid dreams,  

bursts of REM that gave me the illusive bliss 

of being wherever 

and the closest return  

to the mind of a child