Over

The notes are dropping from the band,

The tones, 

Encapsulated wishful thinking.

They pop like bubbles on my skin

And rush up my spine,

Straight to my brain,

To tell me what he said about me.

“I don’t care,” my brain replies.

This reply drops, like a bomb,

Of self awareness and authority,

Back down my spine and out each nerve.

My appendages all breathe

A sigh of hope and sweet relief.

“I think it’s finally over,” they concur.

-jenn