The bed was full
of dry erase markers,
no room for sleep.
We conjugated French verbs
on a small whiteboard,
your voice a whisper
as I floated, words refusing to make
their way into my memory.
Instead, I laid on them—a pillow
of passé composé,
passé composé,
you squeezed my arm,
my heart pounded, caught not trying
hard enough.
Your hands knew
they shouldn’t fill out my worksheets
and your eyes were tested,
tears trying not to show
defeat because if you failed,
I failed.
You popped open all the markers,
used every color,
the smell sinking in our skin—
clicked the caps back in place.
The microwave beeped,
hot cocoa ready—
I sat up, couldn’t spill,
needed to focus
on not burning my tongue.
It never cooled down
but I took a sip for you.
We finished the worksheets but
the words still weren’t sticking.
Our eyes flicked towards the TV remote,
then towards each other, then back at the remote.
Laughter burst out of us,
tears in our mugs—no words, no language,
nothing needed.
You hit “play” and the General Hospital theme song
filled our minds,
answered all our questions
