“And im like huh weird i always feel like im just floating around in a soup of people”

“Sometimes we are in a soup but the broth base of that soup is love”

“Write some poetry abt that damnn”

“I’m on it lol”

Today I want to float away
in a mess of sea foam. 
You have to be quiet
to hear to voice of God,
they say, so I whisper
to the ladybug crawling up
the cinderblock walls of the sleeping
classroom, you are a good omen.
These are days of longing. 
There is grief so thick
you can taste it—the smell
like chlorine and incense,
leftovers in the fridge
gone rotten. 
This is when I should pivot
and be reminded of all
the beauty that this world
holds—lovers yet to be
embraced, warm soup
to be ladled into your
cheap ceramic bowls from
Walmart, but I remember 
burning the tip of my tongue
to many times to count, 
acute pain that leaves us
wordless, but not without noise.
Maybe tomorrow I will simmer
away into forgetfulness. I want
the cold peace that comes with feeling
everything but knowing nothing.