three tiered daydreams

Pritha Jain, India

/stage one; encoding/

science tells me water is a gracious host

for how its atoms collapse into each other

to carve room for unwelcome guests, too.

it's blue is transcribed with loneliness for dna,

which is to say, it only makes sense that the

stolen anecdotes it swallows whole

rarely ever see the light of day again.

it leaves me wondering whether this

shrine of a thousand borrowed emotions

if knocked at, in the middle of the night

is yet another darkened room of forbidden rewards

but i know then,

why cecilia jumps into the water without sparing herself so much as a second thought.

/stage two; storage/

the world courses through her veins in a chemical haze.

she sculpts synapses out of the cerulean

for the electricity in her bloodstream to

trespass through them, uninvited.

she leaves herself behind in

a dampened mess of skin and water molecules

only for the universe to grow softer around the

precipice of robbie's eyelids.

/stage three; retrieval/

enclosing the distance between himself and the fountain,

a rite of passage, he holds his palm out against its surface.

the sapphire of it,

brazen with memories of a religion slipping through his fingers

which is to say,

they first touch each other, through the impenetrable bounds of

space and time and matter.

Pritha Jain is a seventeen-summers-old poet(-in-progress?) trying to make sense of the world within and outside her through art.