by Alex L., 15
They would claim,
as we stood under the blanket of branches and leaves,
where the droning sounds of insect wings cascade
from canopies. And these people would walk on obsessed
with their self-important lives that are just like any other. Except
each would have their own unique quirk,
a color, you might call it, that makes them slightly,
though just a teeny-tiny bit, more interesting.
Some quirks tentatively rustle the back of our minds
like the swaying branches of a pine tree. While others
slam into our faces. And we’d each have a worry
that comes with that quirk. This worry bounds
after us, cavorting like a frenzied dog that
fears being forgotten. It’s not something that can be
shaken off or reprimanded. But it’s something that
needs a pat, a hug, a kiss—anything reassuring.
And when the whispering breeze tickles
our face and holds our hand. When the noon-sun
hugs our bodies but warms our hearts. That’s when our lives
—if you’ll forgive the pun—come to life.
The pungent street smells explode
into the heavenly aroma of my favorite BBQ place. As if,
by chance, we find ourselves “unintentionally” eavesdropping
on others’ dinner conversations and stumble
upon Drew Barrymore personalities.
That’s when we realize:
It’s nothing special.
Chadwick International School, South Korea
Bridge Ink 