Twist,

Turn,

Tilt.

Your fingers wrap around the small object,

They’re working to turn the gears of the puzzle,

As your brain is pondering on what step to do next,

Confused on which path it should take.

Left or right?

Up or down?

Am I even going the right way?

Am I even doing the right thing?

You watch as your fingers struggle,

Turning those little boxes,

Around and around,

Like an endless loop that will remain unsolved.

You want those tiny boxes to change color,

Morph into something it could never be,

The yellow to blue,

The red to white.

You feel the urge to throw the cube the size of your palm,

The Christmas present your father got you,

Across the room,

And watch it shatter into pieces on the ground.

Piece them back together,

So that all sides will be perfect,

Just the way you received it,

Just the way you want it.

You sigh and resume working on the cube,

The Rubik’s cube is like a puzzle that’s never meant to be broken,

It resists your strength as it refuses to turn when you want it to,

You try a combination of methods just to find it not working.

But then,

You’re almost there,

Just one more block to go,

You cheer for yourself.

And you mess it up,

Groaning,

You retry,

Gritting your teeth.

It’s almost like magic,

Almost like a dream,

When you finish the Rubik’s cube,

And you run downstairs to show your father.

Twist,

Turn,

Tilt.