sitting at this desk,
immersed in my midterm exam
thinking
thinking
thinking
and in a moment,
in a suddenflash,
i was there.
((i swear))
in the middle of november,
on one of those bone-chilling nights--
the ones with the biting wind that penetrates every square inch of the city
the ones with the damp cold that even down coats cannot keep away
the ones where your skin screams
and your bones shiver,
the ones where the air pierces your lungs
and it hurts you but it's worth it
because it never felt so clean.
the ones where the skies are clear
and the moon is almost full,
the ones where you'll go insane if you insist on fighting the cold
((let it sink in dear,
all the way into your bones))
i was there, i swear
in the middle of november
exhausted but still awake
because it was one of those days,
the ones where you wake up at dawn on four hours of sleep
and you realize it's another four-advil-morning,
the ones where you have three shots of espresso
& it's almost not enough,
the ones where you go through the day anyway
and you learn learn learn
and you write the papers and finish homework,
the ones where its 2am but somehow you're still immersed in your studies
drowning in knowledge
the ones where you wake up early
just so you can push snooze
and enjoy every single time you fall asleep,
the ones that kill you,
the ones you live for
and i was there, i swear
at my desk in the middle of november
on one of those nights
after one of those days,
and it was one of those moments
where i had nothing to look forward to except for
books
& classes
& talks with my professors
& cups of tea mixed with milk
(a feeble attempt to keep warm
as i walk across campus)
all of the sudden i felt
confined.
& it felt o k a y . . .
at my desk
in the middle of november
i always long for the freedom of summer
the way the sun caresses my skin
the way i can stay up too late, every day
the way it feels
but i was there, i swear
& in the beginning of july,
on just this one night
i really wouldn't mind being confined
i swear, i was there
and it felt alright.
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