In between and before classes, I am restless. I am too absorbed in all the wrong things, tripping down stairs, through verbal exchanges. I remember what I really wanted to say much too late, as I’m watching you turn your back to me. I press my thumbs to my temples, hands floundering at the ends of cold arms. When everyone is looking elsewhere, I scrawl sentences into the last page of my notebook (when this year ends I will have a conglomeration of accidental syllables penned in blue, green, yellow hidden behind the ruse of equations and periodic tables – a student’s folly, inspired by fickle boredom or words I will fall in love with tomorrow, next year, ten years from now, as I’m cleaning through boxes? I can no longer tell the difference).