Right now, I am sitting on my bed watching Merlin and eating popcorn. My lanterns are on, and the windows are open letting in the cool air and the view of the city at night. My roommate is sitting at her desk, also eating popcorn, studying for her final tomorrow. Steven is passed out on his stomach on her bed. Explosions in the Sky is playing, and I just wish that I could capture this evening in a bottle so that I could make it last and go back to it whenever I please. 

This is a basic snapshot of what our room is like.

By the end of this week, I’d have moved out of my dorm room and all of my and my roommate’s things will not be here. All my friends will no longer just be down the hall sitting in their rooms. This saddens me deeply. 

Locard’s Exchange Principle states that when two things touch, it leaves behind traces of itself on the other surface. This principle is used in Forensic Science, however I think that this idea can be applied to almost anything that comes in and out of your life.

This room has housed me and Emma for 8 months. It’s been a home to all our things, all our friends, and all the memories that we come home with. I still have three nights left in this room, and it’s starting to hit that my first year of college is over. This room has seen me and Emma grow this year.

I’m obviously getting very sentimental, but I really will miss this room. I’m going to miss the view from the window right next to my bed; how I can hear my RA’s music sometimes through the wall; my roommate and all her funny jokes and conversations we have. But most importantly, I’m going to miss the people I had the pleasure of sharing this whole floor with for a full school year. They made living here all the difference and made my first year of college incredible. They made this place home.

You are like frilly poetry:

you don’t necessarily make sense (to me)

but you sound pretty

so I read into you anyway.

Last night after the strike of 12 and about five glasses of wine and three glasses of champagne, my wine glass cracked after a drunken slip. I’ve grown up doing some superstitious-based traditions on New Years Eve, so naturally I took this break as a sign of bad luck. 

“You’re in a Greek house, Katrina. Opa!” my friend assured me. 

10 minutes pass. My eyes start to lose control of the room, the insides of my head feel like they’re rolling off parts that I didn’t even knew existed in there, and the heels come off. I find a garbage bin and it immediately becomes my companion for the rest of the night.

I welcomed the new year with my face in a garbage bin and a broken wine glass in my hand. Not exactly the best start, for sure. However, reflecting on my night this morning, I realized that in actuality, I started off my year in the hands of my friends who prove time and time again that they are good to me. They held my hair back, got me a water bottle, brought me home, and walked me to my front door. Maybe that was my opa moment that came after the crash.

I’m sure there’s a life-affirming metaphor somewhere in there. Or maybe that’s just the symbol-finding, Filipino on New Years Eve in me. Either way, I’m grateful to have the good friends that I have. 

Today I went to the Dumbo area of Brooklyn. I don’t really go to Brooklyn often so each time, on the rare occasion I go, I feel a bit out of place being thrown into a neighborhood so eclectic. I’m a bit overwhelmed by the distinct atmosphere of this borough. I’m used to the clean cut, high culture of Manhattan or the immigrant-infused feel of Queens. In Brooklyn, creative urban culture is etched into every crack and corner of concrete, and every wrinkle and curl of its residents. Each layer of natural grime on the streets is young and breathing with fresh creativity. I wouldn’t mind being more well acquainted with the lungs of this borough and see how it breaths; how it absorbs everything in and regurgitates a sketch of the people that makes up the landscape. I wouldn’t mind getting to know Brooklyn more.

I’m sorry I haven’t written. I’ve been meaning to. I’m sorry for leaving you bear and untouched. I’ve left you pristine and naked without an audience to stare in awe at your figure. I’ve been bad; I didn’t deserve the pleasure of your company. I’m sorry my fingers and your edges haven’t met in a while. I’ve been denying my skin with boundaries to cross using a pen’s embrace. Like I said, I’ve been bad, my hands have been fooling around with other things like coat pockets, mouse pads, and the benevolence of a second counterpart whose pulse races faster than mine at the sight of you. His bones fit far greater in the crook of a leather bind. He can catch up with the pace of an empty line. He’s been more good than me when it comes to you, I recognize that. I’ve become so weak at the sight of my sword that I’ve forgotten how to lift it, forgotten how to ferociously swing it that my brow would sweat with passion and my blood would bounce in vigor with every cross and jab. I’ve been out of shape. Terribly so. I’m sorry that I’ve kept you away, gingerly tucked between a shelf in my heart and an untouched corner of a desk. I’ve left you cold and hungry for a good sense of fulfillment. But the machinations of my mind have lost their craftsmanship’s eye, or maybe it just needs a pair of glasses. I’ve been looking at other things like how the sky follows the sun into the horizon or how the wind dances around the trees that it makes their knees shake. I’m sorry I’ve kept those stories away from you. I’ve been a bad gossip, I know. But I really don’t know why I’ve been ignoring you, neglecting you, neglecting every atom in my body to get intimate with a word and maybe elope with it. I’ve been packing it all in as to assure myself that I still have all my bearings, I guess. I deserve a smack in the face though. Then maybe my head would be hit hard enough that words would fall out like bricks and its rubble would be enough to build you up again. 

I have seen your scars

and have gotten lost in the

crypts of your shadows;

I have loved through every tear

and every gap in between

I think what I miss most about home are my friends’ cars. And how we drive around at night, listening to music, telling stories, and laughing. I didn’t realize until now how truly young and free it feels to be able to drive around the town you grew up in, knowing your way around every street corner, with the complete power of controlling your route and destination. All the while you had your friends around you, encapsulating all that love in bursts of laughter in that little vehicle cutting through town and the darkness of night.

My heart’s so overwhelmed by the love that’s been kissed into every memory and experience that makes up who I am right now.

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I wish the winds were strong enough

for all of you to feel the true weight of the

“i love yous” I blow your way. 

the human body was not made for these hours

where the terms night and morning are synonymous.

my being is stretched out and pulled;

my feet planted and left behind in the evening

and my head floating, finger tips reaching,

touching the pink of dawn.

the stomach of these hours are empty.

my thoughts; growling and hungry

but heavy nonetheless,

drop

puncturing holes in the paper thin sky.

this is a late night i miss you that i’m punching into this text box in whispers because you fell asleep and you wont hear it across all the space between me and you and the blanket of sleep that keeps you warm while i’m cold in my awakenness.

That night the words evade me.

And I am filled instead of guitar chords

and drum beats

that your foot tapped along to.

We sat by the fire

and I felt the contentedness of your smile;

it was as warm as

the flames that I swore

was dancing to the music,

the very songs you melted into,

what your foot tapped along to.

Your eyes alight,

hazel and ember,

stealing glances at me

pulling me into the song with you.

And I was there.

Words evade me, and in that moment

it was all just me and you.

I’ve never been able to express myself as efficiently as I wanted to, but now it’s as if I’ve lost the ability to even rub two words long enough to ignite a single sentence. I feel like I’m not alive.

I’ve become afraid of a pen.

So my thoughts have fallen between

as they skip across each heart beat.

I bite my lip and stare passively

as my hand loses the courage

to lift the hilt of my sword

with each echoing yell

that I’ve ignored and hidden

behind my curtain of cowardice.

I foolishly wait for a change,

but the tempo of my heart beat 

slows.

And my thoughts

fall through

completely.