Sparks I’m Still Waiting For
are like shadows resting on walls,
their figures two-dimensional
and inevitably intangible.
I capture snapshots with my Nikon,
listen to Ingrid Andress on replay,
and fast forward through friends’ social
media stories like vexatious television commercials.
I’ve become a child
sucking on their own thumb,
hoping that if I slowly bide my time,
I’ll no longer make my thumb prune.
I’d rather stay in my room and binge Netflix
than glimpse real-life Barbie princesses
kissing their prince charmings in public.
If it’s not happening to me, I prefer fiction.
Time, I’ve learned, is ephemeral.
It laughs at those who try to twist the clock
and make the hands reverberate longer than should.
According to time, it’s not my turn -
not to read books with Mr. Darcy,
or to have deep conversations with Otis Milburn;
not to go to prom with Patrick Verona,
or to go ice skating with Justin Davis;
not even to kick ass with Spike
in the make-believe town of Sunnydale.
It’s just not my turn, but I’m waiting for it.
~~ Cassie Skweres, Class of '24
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