time is a treasure — so that must mean it’s another man’s trash — or perhaps a woman — i don’t know anything — or anyone — so many walls in my imagination — but not like a maze, no, more like boxes upon boxes that transcend the metaphorical box — but have you ever wondered why it’s a box? — because i like triangles and circles and irony — a box within the capital B box — and the walls, four walls, round walls, holed walls that are all walls — because if you think too long, anything — is a wall — and now my tea has spilled, and it burns — but that’s flavored water under the bridge that flows like supply and demand — over the bumps in my wallflower hand — and why save the baby clothes — memory is sad — tomorrow i’m out of my mind but today it’s all in my head — these endings, they come in boxes, and boxes packed so tightly with goodbyes are inseparable — so isn’t it better to forget, says the thinkmuscle, that slave to sleep and time, but never to rhyme — and now i’ve spilled my milk and it’s creamy and cream is frothy and froth is light — in relation to what? — i don’t understand relativity, but that’s beside my point — not that i would know what’s beside or behind or on top of my point because i seem to have lost it — which means i’m in the black cat’s path — so i wonder is that good luck, bad luck, or perhaps i never knew of superstition in which case it is bliss — obviously, it doesn’t matter because i gave the cat a fish and it came to the bridge under which i spilled my tea and relative milk and here — there’s many fish, so the cat does not leave — why? because I did not teach it to fish.
Anishi Patel is a sixteen-year-old high school student who loves to write to the sound of water… it’s the shape of it that confuses her. She also likes macchiatos, the Peet’s kind.