It’s okay if there’s a little sand in the piece of gum you gave me,
it’s only a little bit of sand. These are the sensations I seek, besides. I’m idiosynchronizing, patient.
Blowing one big bubble on the library top floor.
Blowing a bunch and listening to the soap pop on my keyboard. The silent Monday on my heels. I am
coming up with a party trick. To be less convincible
and make clairvoyance conversational. I kiss you back when you say the right thing and find pleasure
in freezing water. I sink into the ink. I talk to my cat
like she’s my attorney. You’re not used to my face without lipstick, but we make it work.
Chewing, itsy rock rolls through my molar. Clean on the outside, rotten within.
Cheeky both ways. Premonating
through the flicker of a birthday cake, which should always be the only light in the room, when
applicable. Me, my family of felines, and the idea of
you: we wade past the knee, the neck high. We lose track of the day of the week. This mascara has
lasted me remarkably long and you find me quite convincing.

Haven Capone (any pronouns) is a senior at Barnard College studying Creative Writing and Italian.