A Sonnet

I'd rather live in stories not my own
This world is broken; I don't want to stay
Embracing pages and the worlds they show
It's so much easier to run away
It's not like I'm escaping joy and pain
They strike me all the same, though I'm removed
I witness them, just with no loss or gain
The feelings still exist, only subdued
Unless it's love, which doesn't translate well
It can't be understood from books alone
You need to live to fall under its spell
It isn't tangible 'til it's your own
And dreams can't live in words already told
So let's make life a story to behold

Disappointment for Lunch

I staked my happiness
on mozzarella sticks.
Breaded, gooey beauty, 
melting on my tongue
like a cheesy waterfall.

Eagerly, I made my way
down the cafeteria stairs,
oblivious to the chattering crowd.
My eyes stuck to the corner,
where the warmer glinted
like a mecca of savory flavor,
a treasure trove of steaming delicacies.

But as I approached
the see-through warmer doors,
egads! No mozzarella sticks
looked back at me.
The smile melted off my face
and pooled onto the floor.
All that I could do
was mop it up and shove it 

in my pocket 

and move on, 

sadly trudging
through my cheese-less day.

the music feels different today

pull
ing
music
from 
the strings,
like you’re climbing
a jagged mountain ledge.
you stumble over the events
of your day, dragging the bow
behind you.     forcing
your way ac-
ross the page,
you shove your
fingers onto the strings.
to coax every note, is what
you tell yourself. not cap-
turing them, while you relish the
deepening calluses. you’re not af-
raid to bleed, because you know it’s
music that will flow from your
veins, egged on by your 
heart, drawn out
by your
b
o
w

a 3D-printed slug

"It made me think of you," she says.

She slips it in my hand, where,
hard and plastic, it sits there
like a log, looking up at me.
"Thanks?" I wonder at it,
the multi-colored, 3D-printed slug

Thoughts swarm my brain
filling a mental venn diagram with
words like lazy and plain
and gross and slow and
who even spends time thinking
about slugs, anyway?

Curling like a worm, 
it folds between my fingers.
Its body zigs and zags
as light catches the plastic,
shiny green with hints of gold

The colors tug a memory:
she once noted, lovingly, how 
my eyes shine green with golden rings.
The little slug's soft clicks 
make the silence less alone...
The sunlight off the plastic shines 

with warmth of being known,
and walking home, I realize that
"I thought of you" means we live
in lives that aren't our own

(revised February 5, 2025)