mixed media, etc.

Hidden away in a corner

he sits

scribbling wildly on staves

Eyes aglow with inpiration,

The lines on the page

His guiding light.

Every few minutes he looks up,

as if to ask a question,

but never does.

Instead, he just goes back

into his own little world.

If you peered over his shoulder,

you wouldn’t understand a thing.

This copy only he’ll see.

But check back in a month,

he’d reply, with a playful glance.

I’ll have finished it by then.

Then he’ll turn back around,

like he never saw you there.

One can’t help but be fascinated

By his incredible focus

On something so monotone.

He’d say that it won’t be

once all the musicians

translate his chicken scratch

into effervescent tones.

The world is spinning around.

Everything is moving,

except the boy stuck in a chair.

writing like a crazy man,

Minding only the music in his head.

With the slightest smirk,

he begins to gather his belongings

And gets up to leave.

Our eyes meet.

My eyebrows raise to say farewell,

and expecting nothing, I turn.

But he taps my shoulder,

and with a shy smile,

asks if I’d like to hear it.

Hear what? sorry I space out like crazy I guess.

My cantata, don’t worry about it, says the boy.

Teeth bared in a grin, he continues.

I wrote it for you, you know.

Once I realize the magnitude,

I envelop him in an embrace,

the only one I’ve ever really meant.

When we stop, I muss his hair,

and he hands me a note.

A link, to a website.

The site where he keeps his cantata.

And as the music blares,

he grips my hand tighter,

I lay my head on his shoulder,

he rests his head gently on mine.

For just a moment,

I’ve entered his frozen solid world,

and it is perfect.

—Ruth Esther Wollman

I’ve never been able to comprehend

The reasons behind your insecurities

(especially those of vanity),

since you’re so much better than me.

I’ve always wondered

Why you tell all these things,

These deeply intriguing personal worries,

to me of all people.

I’m just awkward and anxious,

a behind-the-scenes sort.

But you —

Always the center of the room

Basking in attention, like it’s nobody’s business,

A real lover of the limelight.

I guess everyone likes a good masquerade,

even you.

I remember when we would play in the backyard,

Talk about our juvenile crushes

On all those celebrities.

We’d do each other’s makeup and hair

(badly, might I add)

and pretend we were Vogue photographers.

We’d laugh like hyenas over ice cream,

and now, vanilla chai lattes

(low fat and sugar free of course),

and we exercise until we can’t breather.

So innocent, so ignorant, and carefree

Morphed suddenly into

Self conscious, cain, anxious beings,

Volatile, with raging blood.

I can’t see where we went wrong

But we weren’t torn apart by it.

On the contrary, darling,

we’re closer than ever,

and I hope that’s not the SSRI’s talking.

Maybe I like that we’re (bi)polar opposites

(although I’ll never admit it again).

Remember all the rollercoasters

where we squeezed our eyes shut and screamed wildly?

And all the parties we went to

where you danced with everyone and I just went home?

Let’s forget all that

and start again fresh

and just be kids again

and leave the anxieties and the drinks and the pills

On the doormat outside.

Let’s clear the slate

and watch horror movies all night

and sing along to musicals

and sit on the swings in Riis Park

and let’s not say a word.

Memories should suffice.

—Ruth Esther Wollman