Embers in my hair, black dust getting to my lungs. Red, yellow, purple, blue fire in front of me, behind me, beside me. Above and below me. Within me.

It’s 10 pm on a cold-for-California winter night, and there’s nothing I want to do more than to leave the ice cream shop. I drag the mop along the floor behind me, letting its weight act as an excuse for my lack of movement.

Typing the conclusion of my English essay,

in a loud, dimly lit coffee shop,

I peer over my laptop screen

and see the type of girl you only see

in pictures.

our fingers fly across black and white keys like

sparrows / rhythms of muscle memory echoing

across the table tops // inside, you are wells of blue

deeper than the Mariana Trench / clouded over

with gray brushstrokes where smears of lavender