i’ve lived along the wrong traintracks, half a chromosome off from the abandoned ivy school i would have attended, had i been led by what i’ve been looking for. nobody really knows me here. it takes a special type of person to read the tea leaves in the bottom of the mug I leave to dry. and this still stands: i don’t know how to share the air still trapped in my lungs. because air doesn’t mean much if it is not being swallowed as a last chance. and i know i’ll be able to leave isolation behind and write a poem to live in