Memories taste sweeter in daydreams,
but when you look at me, i forget
who i am, i forget, i forget how to breathe.
i’ve studied about love, under a tree,
wrapped up in a quilt stitched of stars and
dreamed why it seemed so easy,
almost like watching tv. books stacked up high,
rustling like leaves, i climbed up
the trunk of my treasury of knowledge,
my lack of experience causing me to trip,
to stutter; the whispery lies of love
seemed to slip from my grip
once again; will i ever know how it feels
to fall in love, before a priest?
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 