one time, i told you that i got a recitation right. you replied that you got excellent points from your professor, too. yours was about international relations; mine was about creative writing — an analysis of edith tiempo’s bonsai.
i told my professor, with the hopes of gaining academic validation, that love — for tiempo — isn’t always decadent. exaggerated. or for the lack of a better term, big.
sometimes, from my own understanding, love can be found in and fitted into the smallest of spaces. that as tiempo asserted: scaled down to a cupped hand’s size, like a bonsai.
months later, i realized that — in every fast food we share, in every discord call we sleep on and wake up to, in every valorant match we flunk, in every nerd bomb we drop, and just in the simplest and most mundane of things we do — i didn’t speak for academic validation.
i raised my hand, turned on my mic, and recited with you,
and only you,
on my mind.