I was going to write,
About how I looked at your chair,
And saw someone composed of wax, skin cells, the scent of sweat,
All composing into a dusty man,
Playing with his pen, humming about shapes, eating a roll.
The light is shining in his fog,
Colliding, combining streaks of yellow, pink watercolors.
I would go and hug it, my arms colliding into my chest.
But I walked into class, and every a**,
Was discussing grammar, I let out a stammer,
And sat glumly there, but your old black chair,
Had disappeared.
There’s no dusty man, he walked away,
And went on with his boring day.