HERE

i am sitting here,
gazing into orange space here,
swinging my limp legs here,
a traitor, because

#1: i have gulped sour juice and let tiny bubbles of soda eat away at my tongue for my whole long childhood, and now i sit, pretending to be peaceful and wise like a silver-haired guru, sipping steaming passionfruit herbal tea.

#2: i have even betrayed the tea, absorbing any traces of lush, earthy flavor left in foamy, salty garlic knots.

#3: you are shuffling your feet somewhere, a black armband squeezing you like a supporting relative’s hand (though not offering much comfort), as i sit and watch stiff plastic shoes click by through the window.

#4: i know all this, but by admitting it here i somehow assume i am pardoned.