When I took Art History
last semester, I was always willing
to skip class.
Giotto means nothing,
especially not when pale fresco
is more forgettable than
wispy clouds from a
cigarette someone else is smoking.
All I wanted from my first year here
was to feel something more
than what the boy from last summer
taught me:
it feels a certain type of way
when there is something foreign
in the space between the trees.
It’s funny to me now,
that what we see isn’t necessarily
what we believe.
Because when all it takes is a cab ride,
I tend to forget that
whether he’s holding my hand
or not
doesn’t matter because
tomorrow morning he will have learned
and he’ll be swiping out
all possibilities
and tomorrow afternoon
I’ll shower and get dressed
alone.
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