An English lesson,
seemingly neat on the
deep black chalkboard,
halts at its walls.
For “I” and “we” are written
all over late night texts
and promises.
“I think, I know
that we should be together,”
doesn’t get a bad mark
when said with so much passion
your skin crawls, just for one
fleeting glance.
Action verbs, so striking on a page
have no competition
for what is, what will be,
a simple verb with so much pain
can trace the deepest bones
of one girl’s yearning.
We hear the professor,
with smacking rulers and heavy
rimmed glasses,
smirk at over-generalizations,
lecture us not to assume what could
once be proven wrong.
But the night her suit slips into the laundry,
and the glasses fall onto the nightstand,
what is proven wrong twice over,
rolls into a man’s ear,
never seeing the opposing view
of his wife’s claims.
Personal experience cannot outweigh fact,
yet the felon’s record falls, unnoticed
between his sweet taste and hugs
that fit the crevices of one body.
A claim falls flat without its brothers
data and warrant,
yet a claim so taunting, so beautiful
that expands over untouched skin,
sends nightmares slinking away,
a need for evidence goes forgotten.
We must not dive into a story
without a deep knowledge of
characters, of motives,
we cannot start the movement of pen
to paper
without a plan, an outline.
Yet we move our bodies to
characters we have only
skimmed the surface of.
Multiple endings rack through our heads
knowing which one will sell, but never
which ending to believe.
The middle of a story, darkness
hidden within snuggles by a fire
and discoveries of new movement so beautiful,
so real, that we are blinded by forever.
An English lesson has a finite number
of words.
Bliss has no infininte moments, for the lesson
must creep outside its walls.