I am working harder than ever I have
braved. My purple is the substance of sun through the window.
My tea is cold and mostly finished.
I am friends with the soap dispenser already.
We are on a first name basis.
But the bathroom ran out of toilet paper.
(almost too) slowly,
the essays are being written
the words are being punched out
while the computer is being charged.
I take no responsibility.
The hour creeps on, haunting me.
My mind is a wrinkle, a malfunctioning bridge,
a scar out of an illusion.
I am composing in a box.
I am muffled,
I am fighting and want more and ridiculously
inexperienced, attempting to pursue an
This is where I have escaped on my hover board,
this pocket in space,
this obscure corporation of white and snow.
My break is long, but I want it longer.
My patience is the size of a dried pea.
I need to yawn and breathe and let go.
I need to go back to sleep.
I need to release.
Where was home?
Where was my desk again,
my pencil sharpener,
the yellow dream?
Nothing was finished there,
it was all an unsatisfactory start.
I only belong in dust and in-between,
not-quite-there, but almost.
I only belong in a tangle of Try and Perhaps Later.
I am just beginning,
and one day, it will be done.
One day, I will know about those next four years.
And the decision will come.
Like sipping a cup of tea.
Hot, this time.