s.
   s o n o r a ,
n.
   n o t  r i g h t  n o w
a.
   a m  b u s y ,  c a n ' t  t a l k                  
p.
  please don't leave
d.
  d o n ' t  g e t  a t t a c h e d  s o  f a s t
r.
  rare is true attraction and rare is reciprocation. how quick you are to dismiss it
a.
  am I to go on with my life as if you are not a steadying force? you will let me stumble
g.
  g u e s s  ******>.
.
.
n.
  now is the end? love is irrational but you don't understand

I’m at a stand-still with you.

You ask for my advice.
I give it.

You don’t like it.
I offer something different.

Not good enough.
Then figure it out yourself.

I need your help.
Then I need you to accept it.

I paddle this verbal boat forward.
And you paddle it back.

We’re not really going anywhere.
Just making a splash.

Playing ball
with a sack
full of words,
I nod along
as you set up.
Clinging to my drink
as if my bones
were connected,
I trace my pocket
over and over again.
Until finally,
your voice slows,
and my hands catch
your words.
As they reach
to toss back
a response,
I’m relieved
to have something–
anything–
to do with my hands.

Cutting through the canvas of silence,
you present as a practiced painter,
laying out all your lines
with deliberate ease.

Each stroke
of your tongue
frames intention
with perfect dimension,
while this pause
signals invitation
for interpretation.

But the shapes your lips make,
collapse with your features,
and I’m left unsure of your tone.
I can't gauge your reaction,
but it dictates my next word.

Your brushstrokes fall faster
than I’m able to sift through
my archives of memory,
searching for something
that might help me relate.

I inventory my pallet of words
But the pigments are dull
And their boundaries blended.
I try to string together a response,
But the art of conversation
is lost on me.

All eyes narrowed on The One
Here comes the voting, voting
Tongues poised for validation,
Ever doting, devoting.

To keep us all in check, below,
The arena's set of old man lies, lies
Confidence overflows,undeserved
Them ego's high, so fight.

Dying slowly from lack of oxygen
Stench of fakery, faking
I've only ever wanted real connections
And for that I'm broken, breaking.

I’m new to ‘self-directed study,’ it’s a construction I’ve never known. It’s kind of a faustian bargain that resembles another self-paced activity—treading water. The program’s like an immersive plunge in deep, choppy, informational seas.

On the other hand, instead of dark, crowded auditorium classes, we’ve been studying, on sunny mornings, out by the pool, where there’s a summer-camp-like vibe.

When I say 'we', I mean Chella and I, we’re a two-girl study group. I’ve only known her for 13 days but we have a lot in recent-common. She was in my Yale graduation class (last month) but our paths never really crossed at Yale.

She’s a tall, lithesome, black girl from Miami Florida. Not the sandy beach Miami, where palm trees sway, bikini clad models strut and flamingo-pink art-deco bars face the ocean. No, she’s from the Liberty City ghetto—and she has stories.

She say’s that getting her Yale acceptance was a sea change. People were incredulous, as if aliens had landed or everyone in her high school had won the lottery, There’s a sad but steely resignation in her voice when she says she’s never going back there, "Evah."

So, it’s 86°f here in Boston, MA, and we’re out studying by the pool. There isn’t a cloud or bird in the sky and the sun looks—well, honestly, we’re not looking at the sun—we’re college graduates—we’re in the shade. I was afraid the pool would be summer-time crowded but we’ve been the only one’s here all week. We plunge into the pool and then read.

As Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks finished playing on my Bose Soundbar, Chella professed, “I literally LOVE that song.”
“I’ve loved that song since 8th grade,” I agreed.
“I don’t think my musical taste will ever be better than it was in 8th grade.” Chella confided.
“8th grade’s when everyone’s up on trends,” I said, thinking back.

We read for a while. The only thing tainting our near resort-core experience, is the flood of material we must cover.

“I want to be jolly,”  I declared to the universe,“I’m holding that today.”
“You keep yourself so grounded,” Chella said, “like you refuse to delight in anything!”
“That’s not true!” I gasped.
“Yes, it is!,“ she updogged, if anything goes wrong, you’re just done.”
“NOoo!” I laughed. “Ok, two things, if two things go wrong,” she amended.
“That’s fair.” I admitted, “I’m a two chance girl.”  
“That’s fair,” she agreed, then she added, “I’m going to switch the vibe up.”
‘SIREN by Shygirl’ began banging as we went back to our reading.
‘Self directed study’ has it’s advantages.
.
.
Songs for this:
Count Contessa by Azealia Banks & Lone
Blue Coupe by Twin Peaks
SIREN by Shygirl

We both sat in different cities when our conversation started,
not chasing sparks,
just tired souls
looking for soft places to rest.
No promises hung in the air,
no games, no veiled agendas—
just a quiet click,
like puzzle pieces long lost
now found in the same box.
You asked what I’m passionate about,
and I didn’t hold back.
You didn’t flinch at the messy parts.
You shared your own—
not for pity, not for drama,
just truth,
and I listened like I’d been waiting
to hear you all my life.
We laughed about bad jokes,
Talk over what we each had for dinner,
traded secrets like childhood treasures
buried too deep for most to see.
For once, I didn’t feel like explaining myself
was a chore.
And you—
you didn’t try to fix me.
You just listened,
like you knew the weight of it too.
I don’t know where this is going—
if anywhere.
But for tonight,
your voice is a light in a room
I forgot needed one.
And that’s enough.

Did something go wrong

in this phone call? I don't know.


I don't think so. Right?

playing catch with conversations
passing our thoughts
on the taste of the sea
and the way things glisten
under the glow of hindsight
this rain, feels all too maroon
and the roads, like veins
carry forward the spring gloom
I dusted off my shoulders
Just for this today
so, we could sit in the presence
of silence, and a quiet peace
with the pattering of a gentle storm
in between each heartbeat
bouncing between words and worlds
throwing out into the wide open
how we feel about time
just as it passes us by