The Moment
I miss talking to you.
Many times a day I stare at your face,
and with every scroll I make,
I look for something new on your page,
Hoping one frozen pixel would have something to say.
I try texting you, but my dexterity has grown more lethargic since the last time our fingers touched.
And since we barely speak, my computer screen was the only place I felt a spark,
Till I walked into the classroom.
From the corner of my eye I caught her smile,
My gaze plastered on her fragile face like Creme de la Mer.
We broke eye contact for a second, then stared for a few more seconds and chuckled at the awkwardness in connection,
Cause the next question,
Was who's is going to initiate the introduction?
But for some aberrant reason, we both sat still,
Appreciating the chaos,
Sounds of noisy students reverberating off padded walls and hollow skulls.
Yet in this Ataxia, we established public sulitude,
Connected by a golden bubble, although divided by the distance betweeen us in the room.
It's the first day of class, the teacher walks in, class is in session,
I'm listening to everything the teacher's saying, yet the girl with the vintage smile, in the pocka dot dress has got my vivid attention.
We go around in cirlces introducing ourselves,
It's her turn to speak,
I felt like a kid hyped on anticipation,
Waiting for tunes from a singing clock,
She opens her mouth, I feel my heartbeat through my fingers,
Breakdancing to the rhythm of her voice.
Drunk on poisened wine, like a cat high on catnip,
Between her saliva and locked lips,
I felt like Schrodinger's cat, both alive and dead.
I went through class thinking about everything,
Only to realize moments after each thought, that I didn't remember thinking about anything.
Last thing I heard was the teacher say 'have a great day and see you tomorrow'.
Twas time to take action, time to reintroduce myself, time to confront this alien passion.
In soft focus, intuned with my surrounding, I pick my bag and look about the room,
Miss Pocka dot dress was out of sight.
Doubting my visual perception,
I look about the room again but the result remained the same.
Dejected and distraught, I leave the classroom forlorned,
Like a fat kid staring at his fallen ice cream cone,
I pulled out a cigaret and contemplated heading home.
Heads bowed, shoulders shrugged,
My vision clouded by the smoke from the buring tobacco,
Suddenly I heard her voice echo, do you have a spare cigaret I could borrow?
she sounded like a nightingale singing hymns, she must be a second soprano,
Miss pillow lips, in the pocka dot dress was standing before me,
With a timid hand, I stretch out a cigaret, while basking her glory.
My heart agressively refusing to pulsate,
Like a man dying from eating too much red meat,
I slowly gestured and said 'would mind having a seat? '
She said, 'you Jolomi right? '
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poem by Jolomi Amuka
Added by Poetry Lover
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