I can swim through books,
dark ink isn't as thick as you'd think.
It's slick –
not like oil dribbling down fingers of gruff mechanics,
or out the metallic tunnels of exhaust pipes;
of too expensive silk baby blue sheets.
I don't drown in words, I float.
I read the whites between the lines,
they teach me about the nature of people,
frozen yogurt, time,
Mainly people and jungle juice.
I know a fundamental truth now:
no Holy Grail exists.
My condolences to Peter Pan –
the bittersweet illusion of eternal youth,
a fleeting moment in a classroom,
smell of dry chalk and boredom,
tap of keyboards,
taste of insight,
popping bright and colorful on the tongue.
He is dying, I go on living.
I move toward tomorrows,
sheathed in novelty, reality.
The hummingbird in my chest calms. Neverland fades.
It has been good to me.
I climb out of the books,
I drip with understanding, at last.
I go on living.