Fragile drifting bubbles,
pushed forward blindly by colors-
colliding without knowing,
affecting without caring.
Or possibly self-contained ants separated by glass,
an impenetrable indifference,
waiting because you’re supposed to wait.
Our lights turn green, but
where are we even going?
I had a dream that I was on a train
with my ex-boyfriend.
I didn’t know where we were going.
But that’s normal because
I never knew where we were going.
He kept trying to talk to me
and play with my hair,
but I couldn’t stop looking out the window.
I put my hand up
and I could almost feel
the kaleidoscope whirring past me.
places I’ve made up
that could maybe be real.
I wanted so badly
not to feel
him beside me
and to jump outside
into the abyss.
It was given to Good Will.
Maybe a young boy has it now.
Hopefully he doesn’t think twice about
cozying up to it in bed
(Because no one will know about it)
Or lending it to shivering friends
or clutching it through the forest
when he doesn’t want to ruin other clothes.
Maybe he thinks the big ripped hole
in the side gives it character.
Because the character is the girl who had to wear it
walking back from a night
she doesn’t remember,
trying to understand why everything
She hopes that while dressed in that ragged red,
he isn’t afraid to cry.
And that he has all of its memories,
like she does,
forever in the back of his mind for so long
that it becomes part of his own fabric.
She just hopes he’s warm.
And I hope that too. For her.
Whoever I used to be.
In a way, I am sorry.
That is my name,
that is what you can call me.
Perpetually apologetically inclined-
but at least you know upfront.
“Hello, my name is Sorry”
because of the words I don’t have the courage to say
and the life I haven’t lived yet.
I’ll look up at the stars
and realize everything
I can be
everything I’m not
and I’m sorry
because that will be a magical moment
I’ll never tell you about.
I can’t find it anymore.
We locked our metal initials to the bridge,
tethered and everlasting.
I know that nothing is permanent.
Stop making fun of me.
Let me have this one thing.
It’s broken off,
I didn’t want to find it anyway.
It’s lost to the city.
I wish I could get new eyes every day.
And every morning I’d wake up
wobbling like a newborn
and people accepted that.
Because this is my first time seeing and
it should always be like this.
What does it feel like to commit to something?
When committing is guaranteeing
and I can’t promise you that.
Anticipation is the death
and I hope I don’t die that way-
w a i t i n g
and lying to myself.
I am pretty sure it is Saturday
and I am floating.
I don’t let myself think about
and should not.
I’m just here in a folding chair,
watching the way people’s mouths
move when they talk
My lungs hurt from vapors
I can’t think my way out of.
But I think now
that the rules don’t matter.
You might as well do those things
because that guy had so much life left to live
yet that guy did nothing for 95 years and still lives.
So maybe nothing is wrong
except for the idea that we can be wrong.
Smiling is exhausting.
But eyebrows are upside-down smiles
persevering through the highways
and the heart attacks
and the parts that don’t feel off
but have never felt right.
Or, at least, we want to be-
befriending the little ticking hand that
because these lives are comfortable but suffocating
serendipitous but calculated
and we try to salvage what we can.
COURTNEY ROSS / Contributing Writer
Courtney Ross is a Junior studying Film Production. She spends her beloved free-time daydreaming about things that will never happen and performing with FSU’s sketch comedy troupe 30in60. Courtney is a big fan of relentless positivity, infinite Cheetos, and Mary Oliver. All of which are basically synonymous. She also enjoys being serious…sometimes.