My Cardboard Balcony

Forked Fingers by Belinda Roddie You always had to clarify your true intentions with Cajun sarcasm laced with paprika. "Just kidding!" or "quote-unquote" gestures with knuckles poised in white and red streaks, while you sipped from a styrofoam chalice. I studied microbes under a scrutinizing eye and there you were, sitting in my science lab, cracking jokes about the teacher, and when he saw the arched eyebrow I knew he couldn't get angry at you. But it made it so damn difficult when you said "I miss talking to you" or left me a text message without the pasty emoticon guiding me by the porcelain hand to the real meaning of your stale condiment vocabulary.

A bright blue insect which I could not identify nestled itself in between the wall and my oak desk. Its wings appeared to be like crystal, drops of sun sprinkling across its reflective sheen, bits and pieces of rainbow foundation scattering about my white walls. I wanted to retrieve a book of mine and see what its name was, but instead all I could do was look at it over my stream of notes.