Young Writers Society

Sunbathing in a parking lot

'21—these scattered lines might make a map
'22—somewhere, folded in under the horizon
'23—If spacecrafts meet

Index of poems
1. Tuesday night
2. the second half
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.

I am so happy to see you here.

Also this title has so much awesome wonderful poetry potential. I'm here for it! *subscribes immediately*

Have fun writing, I love the theme you're going with.

Tuesday night

tonight has been a sweaty rehearsal that ran past 10:00 pm,
a dinner of unheated pizza crusts at 11:13 on a Tuesday,
a pair of eyes squinting at a laptop screen—glasses lay unused on the desk,
and a shower postponed to tomorrow morning
in the squeezed time between extracting myself from my sheets
and being seven minutes late to my calculus tutorial—
because tonight is dedicated to sticky feelings:
heat, heavy limbs, oily hair, acne on shoulders,
and fatigue that runs as deep as the heels of my feet

I am not a party-goer—

the conversations always vibrate so loudly that sometimes you can be convinced the windows are about to erupt,
and heat radiates off skin until the air blurs
the same way the air above an asphalt road in the summer does.
there is music playing but it has lost the melody and the lyrics;
it is a mess of hoarse voices, worn-off deodorant, and stomping feet.

but tonight I wait out the first half,
until the playlist is abandoned and the windows are propped open by hazardous stacks of pens and erasers,
and the curtains are gently swaying,
and everyone has thrown themselves onto the chapped leather couches.
by 2 a.m. I am caught up in it all: the way that limbs start to move more loosely,
gazes are held more intensely,
and suddenly you can feel the fibres that tie you to these people.