Cashier Colored Eyes and Fifty Cents

freckles. light brown.
freckles on olive brown skin.

callouses. scarred strength.
callouses on the palms of my hands.

her touch was warmer than the weather, and the island was sweltering underneath one of the hottest days of summer. that was saying something. 

her fingers lingered in my palms, but the coins never left her grasp. change was in her hands—our hands—but neither of us were counting down the clocks. we held onto those seconds, stretching them as far as we could. 

hazel. with a tinge of green. 
soft golden sand in the evening, still heated by the daylight.
tropical trees thriving and rising with vigor and purpose.
an island oasis within her eyes. they never swayed away.
her eye remained locked with mine, inviting. 
stranded in her island irises. 

it was such a small moment
but i know i felt it first.

little intricate circles. circling the proof carved into my hands, proof that destiny was shaped by my hands. caressing what was previously scarred, cut, sprinkled with blood, blood of others. the determination of an adolescent enclosed around peers and faced with a challenge is a dangerous situation.
a young lion proving his pride.

the coins were wet and warm as her fingers slid into mine
if i leaned in clos——

“mmhmm.”
my head jerked back. the auntie behind us (everyone was family here) was still grinning, tilting her head. a line of two turned into a line of eight. in a flash, the receipt and drink were crammed in my pocket.

freckles. light brown with a hue of pink.

“thank you for shopping with us.”

“thanks…Kali.” a quick look at her name tag.
a grin surfaced underneath those freckles, and i was tempted to buy everything else on the menu.

“come back.”

her eyes wanted me to promise.

“i will.”

i walked out, and the hum of scooters and trucks made him yell a little louder than usual. a face too similar to mine. 

“did you get any change?”
“yeah, i did.” 

—-

i want to write about the stories that begin and end in seconds. the beauty is in the brevity. i saw a ton of different faces, people, characters in these last days, and i want to write about them. 

the little girl and mother, the homeless scavenger, the windward surfer, all of them, and the Glimpses Series will serve that purpose. 

god, on microsoft notepad.
xangas. livejournal. myspace blogs. facebook notes. 
(that’s not even including the beaten up journals and notebooks.) 

like any great stage, you need an audience. but more importantly, you need someone in that audience; someone to light the fuse, pull the trigger, raise the red curtain, get  too close to your lips and not look away. 

sometimes, that audience member was a rivaling friend. she hid her words underneath her shadows and only brought up bits and pieces of her life to the light. Yet, if you could see what she was hiding, if you were lucky enough to see where she kept her thoughts, you’d be swept away within her, understanding the people in her life as if you met them. 

but most of the time, you step onto that stage—the blaring lights blocking out figures from your view—because you know she’s sitting there. it started with her. it always started with her. 

she’s the reason you brave the criticism and fears swelling up in your stomach. she’s the reason your voice doesn’t shake when it’s time to say your lines. she’s the reason your eyes cut past the lights instead of staring at the floor and your feet. she’s the reason your fingers dont tremble, and your moves are precise. it’s because she’s the only one you can see past the lights.

“and when the world goes silent, he steps on stage. she’s there, waiting. they whisper what will come, while their lips make what they whisper.”

she was the reason you wrote. it was last thing you shared with her. 
yes, it started with her, but of course, others arose.  

—-

there used to be a ton of us. writing about what we wanted, what we felt, what we hoped would catch their eyes. very few are left. 

it happened with xanga and all the others. when people bleed their lives out for all to see, there is only so much to say to a certain audience before they stop caring and you bleed out. 

we’ve moved with the herd, reblogging what we cant say, liking what we wish we had, following who we wish we were, silently moving with the masses without ever speaking a word. 

i damn near lost my voice. 

never will i forget

or

never will i leave.

underneath the cover of night, we flew arriving before the dusk. promises stuck to my mind like sweat stuck to my skin. in the morning, a symphony of whistling winds and chirping birds pulled me from my dreams and into a fantasy. trees swayed slowly, greeting a new day. the morning light rose through cloud and fog, igniting the sky with its orange hue.  can mornings be this breathtaking? 

their skins darkened but their accents heavy from where they came from. eyes glistening with the lure of clear waters, clear skies, and clear minds. “you’ll love it here,” he grinned without hesitation. they all nodded their heads and clung to the perspiration around their drinks. layers of age couldn’t mask the youthful expression on his face. his eyes were adrift, stretched out on top of a blanket of sand on some secluded beach. thousands have made this choice. would i make the same one too and find my personal paradise?

—-

like anything else, it takes a little time and a little wiggle to get back into doing something you use to do. i must read, see, and feel again and again before i can write again. i’ve already polished off two books—i’d never get the chance to read anywhere else—and “the book thief” is in my sights. i’ve stood at the base of ancient gods, staring up as their shoulders reached the sky, listening to the deep and quiet rumblings of their voices. i’ve used my imagination, yet the sweets from this neverland taste better than dreams. 

a little more time here, please. 

you need to make a choice. 

it’s what i told myself when this semester started.
i kept the image i see in the mirror.
i kept the constant hours prepping, reviewing, grading, and talking with students.
i kept the hours of sleep to power it all.

i let them slip a little far.
normally, i’d be with them between classes, grabbing food, trying to study but talking instead, and spending hours on the weekend studying with them. 

but teaching is a demanding profession. 

maybe it’s the fact i’m the first to go through this; they’ll be in the thick of it next semester. maybe they’ll make a different choice. it still impresses me how some can function with the amount of sleep they get. if the work day doesn’t kill my energy level, the gym finishes what the work day didn’t deplete. 

i miss driving home at 1am or later just to wake up for a 9:15am the next day and crash afterwards inside the ED or BAL while everyone else studied. 

the transition happened too swiftly. 

student to teacher. 
careless to controlled.
growing to grown.
making memories to maintaining monotony.  

i miss spending hours crafting a single post for eyes who will probably skim down onto other posts. it was enough just to write it out. it was enough to have my thoughts preserved somewhere else instead of swelling up my head. 

it was enough just to have them so i could come back one day and reread how much everything meant to me back then.

but now, i see thoughts swelling up in their minds. now, i witness the combustions from their fast scribbling pens. catalysts born within desks and notebooks. 

i just want look back and say the choice was worth it. 

—-

i want to party like it’s a summer night of 09.

everything used to be a thought. 

waking up before the dawn, returning after the dusk.
a messenger bag filled with papers, grades, their lives dipped in black ink and spread across papers with my guidance in the margins.

everything used to be a thought.

balancing form and power amidst clinging fears.
turning a reflection in the mirror into the vision i saw, wanted, aimed for. 
surpassing his achievements. ready to rise for the new summer sun.

everything used to be a thought.

thinking i would never let you go.

everything used to be a thought. 

the constant searching. the constant wondering.
the illusions depicted from a vivid imagination. holding my hopes hostage.
who would’ve known that she would pull those dreams into reality.

…everything used to be thought.
but now, im becoming everything i set out to be.

—-

my time with the kids is almost done, and i can finally return to my writing. this post is probably the calm before the storm since they’re turning in their research essays monday.  

when the summer rests against my skin, when the rush of expectations quells into a slow stream, when we see each other anew and wash away what once was 

i swear i won’t leave