The time is 9:43 am.
It is Wednesday, January 8th, 2014
I am sixteen years old.
And I still have no idea what I'm doing with my life.
White washed by the rain,
Water seeping through the cracks in my shoes,
I am walking on periodically placed chunks of cement.
Bland rectangular blocks all thrown together
In some inconcievable system,
To keep the cars
From murdering the people that created them.
And I inhale sharply,
And challenge myself to see past the small drops
That assault the face I painted on this morning,
In order to see the sky
Which is inherently gray.
Not a flavor I tend to love,
But I have learned to appreciate,
Like fine art,
Because of the alien droplets
That tend to fall from it in naturally chaotic patterns.
My favorite flavor is soft yellow.
Because no matter what my art teacher says,
It will always make me the opposite of blue.
But I also love the sensual taste of deep navy,
Which is the color of the shirt you wore the other day,
Not that I noticed.
Because the perfect way your cheeks wrinkle to expose your brilliant teeth
Is breathtaking, not that I noticed that either.
And I pull out the abused phone
With the cat on the back painted in chipping black nailpolish,
That I call my friend,
In order to check the time,
Because it's 9:44 am,
On Wednesday, January 8th, 2014
And I am sixteen years old,
With nothing better to do.