The Length of Love

How far can your heart reach? Can you feel my gaze, from so far away? 

Touch, so gentle, soft as the snow. Eyes, perplexed, engrossed, no one could know. Stare, transfixed, at what you hold. A bird as white, just as the snow. 

I can’t help but stare. Upon the window, my warm breath against the cold air. My hands are frozen, and the sky is grey; crying frozen tears, while you play. 

Daint specs of wax fall upon her, melting against the warmth of her glass skin. Even the snow can’t be cold near the warmth of her heart. Just once, could I fall? Through this window of sorrow, could you reach me if I called? Could the warmth of your heart feel the cold of mine? I wish.

I curse at the sky in spite. Who let it watch over my life, ever so gloomy and so dark? Who sent it to draw the curtains on my only light? Who allowed it– to forsake my wish?

Yet life moves. A new semester, in old school halls. Each step proved an enduring task, heavy as the stone lodged in my calves. Day in and day out, week by week. Each is as repetitive as the last. New material. Same people. Talking heads fill every room—a sea of shortcomings.

It only took one day to turn the rest upside down. Eyes, face, hands, mind. It was all. Perfect. Could they see? Her presence embodied the room with her perfection. Time moved just a bit slower. Take action! I can’t. I wanted to speak, but my words were stuck, frozen in my heart. 

Please don’t go. What if she did? Leaving my life as fast as she entered? I wanted to speak. I wanted to run. Straight. My heart didn’t allow it. The distance in my head grew with every step I took. I wanted to speak. Her figure, faded into the fog, nothing left but her silhouette and maple-tinted hair, blowing in the wind. 

Days passed. My mind raced. Minutes. Audiobook. Just speak. Speak. Seconds. My heart. Thumping. English. What? I can’t think. I’m sleeping. Thinking. Running. I’ll run. As long as it takes. Come back.

A few taps on the shoulder. “Wake up!”

My heart cracks. Warmth radiates from her every move. The gap closes. I start to run. Fast, fast, as fast as I could. I see the end. My heart is unbound, thawing, beating once more. Her eyes make me lost, her laugh drives me crazy.

“You were sleeping– silly.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t say anything. My brain lost a few screws, my circuits slightly fried.

“Well, we need to pick partners.”

I still can’t speak. My hands tremble, so rugged and broken compared to hers.

“I’m asking if you want to be partners…”

My words lag. My heart starts to stutter. But the warmth of her heart spreads deep, thawing my words out. Closing the gap between us. Speak up.

“Yes.” 

Fatuous Markers

In Mr. Baratti’s class, we learn.

I know I learn. I know we learn. I know that there is learning.

And yet, when he doodles on that board, all I see is ink and plastic.

The black marker whirls around. Unforgiving. The night is unforgiving. It winds around in spins and circles, like a lazy river. But it’s a lost lazy river at best.

I know Martin Luther. We know Martin Luther. “Justification through faith.” He said. I believe in no god. I have no faith. But I learn.

And when the bell rings, it brings a different marker. But the marker is always just ink and plastic. And each day comes with new bells. But the bells come with the same markers. 

Every few bells bring a test. Each marker has its test. Baratti, Springer, and Battig. Each lay on my desk, all thin, sharp, and like the marker; unforgiving. Baratti’s is the worst. Like becoming a knight, fencing an enemy with chain-mail armor. Catch is, the links feel microscopic. On a good day at that. But his tests are also very forgiving. When you get knocked off your horse, they lend you a hand to get up. You’ll always get some points back. Springer is easy. But not very forgiving. Her knights don’t have much power in their blows, but if they get you on the ground, they make sure you stay on the ground. You never get points back. Pay attention. I would recommend being careful with Battig. They look nice, and they are nice. Sometimes. But I would be wary not to be hit. Because if you get hit, you will fall off. Tumble even. I took quite a tumble last time around. Each question is a chunk of your grade.

One thing stays the same in every test. I never seem to achieve enough. Even though I stare at the marker, making out its every twist and turn, when it comes time to duel, I always lose. Always knocked off my horse. In the end, I feel nothing but dirty, dry, and thirsty. Each test is a blow to the face. A well-placed, full-force jab right in the eye.  A 70 here. An 80 there. And when I do get something good, it’s like the opponent wasn’t even wearing armor. Everyone can beat that guy. This was never the case before. Before, the marker always made sense. The marker wanted to be read. I always bested the marker’s tests. This year, the marker is running away. Making me play a frustrating game of hide and seek. But in looking for the marker, I looked at the sky. And I thought about why I kept chasing the marker. Why I kept playing its stupid game. And it’s self-explanatory; I want to be successful. But is that all there is to life? Is it worth giving up my happiness to play this brainless, obtuse, fatuous, half-baked, inept, cretinous, and downright infuriating game of hide and seek?  No. No, it’s not. Not at all. 

Aiden said I had an epiphany. The marker is not my life. Even if I don’t find the marker, I can see things even more beautiful than that darmy marker ever will. I still want to be successful. But I won’t chase the marker over it. Instead, like Luther, I’ll have faith. I have faith in the sky. I have faith that I will win. I have faith that I will end up where I belong. And where I belong, I have faith in myself to choose. Have faith in the sky. That fatuous marker can’t chase you in the sky.