It’s these little things that make or break my day, like
hearing Mike playing hesitant guitar in his room or
running into Clark and his contraband shakers in the kitchen with the
ineffectually boarded-up window,
seeing Sarah walk into chem late with her hair lank maybe from the shower maybe from the rain maybe from tears she won’t admit to shedding I don’t know,
but it’s these little things,
counting the ratio of white people to Asians at Tech or
catching myself when I trip on that obnoxious crack in the sidewalk on the way to Plex for lunch or
not catching myself when I trip on that obnoxious crack in the sidewalk on the way to Plex for lunch and
how high my distinctive neck pulse gets the closer I get to some kind of truth.
It’s these little things and
a more sensible person would be able to link their overall happiness to some bigger picture but
I am a poet and
my day may depend on
how many seconds you hold eye contact with me or
how many cups of soda you drink at dinner,
how many excruciating minutes elapse in the synapses between my frayed neurons before you respond to me and
how many dollops of affection you’re willing to spare on any given Sunday.
It’s these little things, and I think they’re going to kill me.