Running my fingers along the grooves in the wood,
the desk I sit at is one I dreamed of sitting at for years.

With the poised lamp in front of me and dangling light
chandelier, intricate, swirling wood carvings on the side
meeting the feet of smooth marble at the ground,

I breathe in, feeling the air around me fill my chest,
along with hundred years of dust bunny particles,
specks of paper, and the legacy of countless people,
and ceilings erected with such coveted detail that blood rushes
to my head, and my heart aches with emotion so violently.

How can someone as star-crossed as me be allowed
in the presence of such magnificence?
Drops of memory meld with the oils in my skin,
and I'll hold on a little tighter now.