(escapril, day 27: the state of it all)

What’s going on here? Is there something? Are we something?

I think you want it. I know I do. But still, it’s uncertain.

Sometimes I think I’m imagining it. Whatever this is.

It’s undefined, blurry, hard to make out,

Hazy like the shimmer of oil on the asphalt of the school parking lot.

I snap a picture of it, my beatup boots framing the edge,

Before running to catch up with you, looping my arm through yours,

Teasing you about something silly.

Run your fingers through your hair, the smell crispy clean,

Our bellies stuffed full of cheap coffee and candy and all kinds of crap,

We try to stave off that inevitable late night crash,

Giggling over God only knows what.

It’s something like teen rebellion.