Save-a-Lot
gets wiped clean of grape jelly
in the springtime for orange beauties.

I obsess over the whimsy.
I repeat it like proverb.
I tell them,
so they can see in this little moment
that orange and purple fit together.

You wouldn't believe
that they are boomerangs
silhouetting by the late sun
it came to our minds easy

thinking about it often
stuck on orange and purple
and boomerang flight.

I laid on the asphalt with my eyes on the sky.

My hands were flattened: palms pressing toward the ground and picking up the intricacies of my driveway, forming tributary imprints on my skin.

My legs were sprawled and my feet angled pointedly outward.

A piece of pink chalk, quickly waning in size, tethered me to this position.

Elena, my closest childhood friend, had taken it upon herself to outline my body from head to toe. She had been on my left leg when the chalk brushed up against my left calf ever so slightly,

and I flinched.

That prompted a scolding that wasn’t the first and surely wouldn’t be the last.

“Hold still!”

I squirmed at every close encounter. Suddenly every inch of my body had an itch calling for a scratch, my chin-length, dark hair trailing on my cheek was begging to be brushed away. I wrinkled my nose at the dust drifting in the air that was emanating from her tedious tracing.

I sneezed.

Elena jumped back, causing the chalk line to veer violently off the course of my figure’s frame.

She rolled her eyes and huffed and told me it was finished anyway.

I peeled myself off the ground, inspecting my hands and brushing pebbles off my shorts.
I slowly tip-toed out of the rugged lines that had corralled my body.

The creature of contour before us resembled a puffy figure closer to the Michelin Man than my smaller-than-average seven-year-old frame.

My fingers were ballooned and bumpy; my legs curved as if boneless.

Elena and I exchanged a look of dissatisfaction.

“It doesn’t really look like me,” I replied frankly.

A hallway.
for me and you
was a couple of leaps between shadows
to
laughter followed by scolding
and
right back to the hallway again.

Once,
You made
Five hundred and thirty-six miles
A hallway.

A carpet trail
Turned sinuous backcountry roads
In the dark of late fall,
The skeletal trees
Of Upstate New York
Unlike our home’s shoe-print walls.

My eyes burned with relief
At the headlights of your car.
Lugging puffy blankets through my door
Laughing at your air mattress,
To my roommate’s dismay,
Taking up the floor.

From highways to new hallways
Laced with your memories  
Those concrete corridors
In their freedom-filled, fluorescent glory.

To our current hallway,
Where your door mirrors mine
Where you paint with 5 o’clock sunlight
On my freckled face.
The smell of cheaply brewed coffee
That we separately make.

Tis morning,
my " " key stopped working.
I'm trying to write my paper,
and it's so distracting.

As if I wasn't distracted enoug already.
I ate tis.
But I ave to write my paper.
But at least now I ave someting to blame my distraction on
oter tan you.

I have had this reoccurring dream.

that the sun is so bright
I become paralyzed.
unable to open my eyes.

My face
contorted.

     eyebrows raised
     jaw stretched
     pupils restless.

body immobile.

I remain.  
not exactly,
yet at the same time completely,

blind.

I don't know if I'd call it a nightmare,
but it's the only dream that scares me.

I think it's so cliche
that you assume we disagree

Dear Rebeka,

Is it the same for you?

Anxiously bouncing your knees
while furiously scribbling notes.
Always taking glances
out the library windows.

Looking for nothing.
Nothing in particular.
just anything... ANYTHING OTHER
than a laptop screen
or another ******* lined piece of paper.

Upon exiting the prison, you find the outdoors enticing.
The sharp breeze flushing your cheeks,
The soft glow of evening
soothing the afterimages of fluorescent lighting.  

So cold your breath is tangible,
Hands tucked safely in your pockets,
Inhaling the night's air
like your drinking a tonic.

Thinking about home, and it's all so romantic.
Trying, but failing, to be more pragmatic.

**** it.
**** it.
**** it.  

Let's drop everything...
... and hop in the Prius.

All my love,
Jill