In French, we learned about infinitives

at the same time that my English teacher told us not to use them in our essays

And I guess I see the point in the contradiction

But I found humor in it anyway.

We learn about something we aren't supposed to use 

except in different languages

Mornings, though monotonous,

became yellow-tinted suddenly

January mornings filtered in through plastic blinds

were once thick, intoxicating,

but October mornings filtered in through light curtains in a marina-side hotel

were passionate, refreshing

I fell deeply in love with city lights,

sent pictures to my best friend, telling him that he'd 

love it here. 

I got a best friend this year.

We sit together and laugh about what we know

and cry about what we don't yet know

It's a comfort to laugh and cry at the same time, 

except sometimes, each are only subtext,

laughing is a metaphor when there isn't anyting funny

crying is a symbol, 

and we make eye contact at 4 in the morning when everything is sleeping 

except for us, 

and except for the night lights

and who cares that we have a test tomorrow?

That test doesn't know or care about 

where we are right now,

it used to be just him on the town

it used to be just me laughing as a symbol

January brought thickness

February brought uncertainty

March brought healing. March brought healing. March brought healing.

With every day there was healing

Healing in the form of reading

I learned to paint, 

I drew my uncertainty, 

I painted my healing.

April brought flowers, 

unlike the adage claims.

May brought freedom in the form of sleeping until noon

like every high schooler does

June brought sunshine

July brought thunderclouds

So thick I ripped my canvases.

August brought slavery in the form of sleeping until noon

like every high schooler does

September brought memories of the last September

October brought a voice of reason

So loud I threw away my canvases 

and painted my healing on my body.

November brought singing and screaming in auditorums and school buses

a sense that I belong

so strong

it abolished my ties to whatever made me sleep until noon,

whatever made me rip up paintings

December is yet to come, 

But i can't decide whether I'd welcome the end.

My year in poetry 

Is not a year in verse

life doesn't happen in verse,

only its collection.

My year in poetry 

is poetry in the form of its own existence.

I have found the poetry in mornings,

I have found the rhythm in months at a time, 

I have found the rhyming, and absence of rhyming,

in black marker, crossing out days on a calender

I did not create the poetry in my year, 

But i did find it.