Countdown
something about the air stinging my cheeks,
my hair whipping sparks
against the cold, my shivery stride,
made him call me "cute,"
but I didn't feel adorable and small
at that moment, only half of me
laying down footsteps next to his,
the other part imagining the distant countdown
of my chances
to fall in love with him.
wincing.
maybe next time.
my shoes are too small for balance
on these cobblestones, swaying on paths
I must have memorized, sverving, heels leading
my thoughts in amazon wanderings, mapless.
It’s too bad that kissing a boy
is not a strategic manuever.
later, I catch myself looking wistfully
at a boy with quick, sure hands
frying rice.
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