Grace Novarr (16)
The Least Difficult
“I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.”
—Frank O’Hara, from Meditations in an Emergency
I might be too young to like you so much. Alternatively, I might be too old. I remember the boy who put paper hearts in my hat back when my teeth were crooked and asked me what my favorite color was by scribbling the question in the back of his notebook in science class. That was during the last World Cup, which is happening again, which I know because I keep walking past small explosions on the sidewalk, all fist and tooth and lung. If I remember this summer at all it will be noise and taste. In 2014 my favorite color was purple and now it is blue, which is really just purple but less bold of a statement to make. I’ve never met a boy with purple eyes.
There is something here which I am thinking but which is too obvious to say, or write.
A grid is repetitive but multifaceted. You see what I am getting at. I flipped the page on the calendar three days ago and now the kitchen is a different place, which I suppose it always is, in the same way I am always a different person, in the same way that each square on a grid is different, even if on another day I were to say that each square on a grid is exactly the same.
I like the sidewalk because it is concrete and I don’t have to think about walking. Not so with the forest, where each step must be conscious. You asked if I wanted to come hiking with you sometimes and I said yes because I like you a lot, in fact I love you. But don’t take it so personally, because my love is binary, an endless stream of lights and darknesses blinking themselves out of my heart. I took my hand off the switch a long time ago. It’s easier this way, when all I have to do is walk and drink coffee and bump into things and try, every now and again, to discern what I am feeling. Currently I seem to have stumbled into some sort of adulthood, which I am sure will fade. After all, I am only a grid, and everything is either a box or the dark line dividing.
Grace Novarr is a high school junior who spends most of her time writing poetry, being lovesick, or taking long walks.
The Least Difficult
“I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.”
—Frank O’Hara, from Meditations in an Emergency
I might be too young to like you so much. Alternatively, I might be too old. I remember the boy who put paper hearts in my hat back when my teeth were crooked and asked me what my favorite color was by scribbling the question in the back of his notebook in science class. That was during the last World Cup, which is happening again, which I know because I keep walking past small explosions on the sidewalk, all fist and tooth and lung. If I remember this summer at all it will be noise and taste. In 2014 my favorite color was purple and now it is blue, which is really just purple but less bold of a statement to make. I’ve never met a boy with purple eyes.
There is something here which I am thinking but which is too obvious to say, or write.
A grid is repetitive but multifaceted. You see what I am getting at. I flipped the page on the calendar three days ago and now the kitchen is a different place, which I suppose it always is, in the same way I am always a different person, in the same way that each square on a grid is different, even if on another day I were to say that each square on a grid is exactly the same.
I like the sidewalk because it is concrete and I don’t have to think about walking. Not so with the forest, where each step must be conscious. You asked if I wanted to come hiking with you sometimes and I said yes because I like you a lot, in fact I love you. But don’t take it so personally, because my love is binary, an endless stream of lights and darknesses blinking themselves out of my heart. I took my hand off the switch a long time ago. It’s easier this way, when all I have to do is walk and drink coffee and bump into things and try, every now and again, to discern what I am feeling. Currently I seem to have stumbled into some sort of adulthood, which I am sure will fade. After all, I am only a grid, and everything is either a box or the dark line dividing.
Grace Novarr is a high school junior who spends most of her time writing poetry, being lovesick, or taking long walks.