Nov 18
poem challenge: Thanks

Your Room Down the Hall

I think sometimes I could never, never in a thousand years, do for you 
what you have done for me. 

The yellow and pink smeared on your face at Holi, just before 
you tumbled spectacularly off your bike in a colorful cloud of dust—and the 
dark blood streaked on your leg, the embedded gravel— 

the dim sum, the exuberant roof slides,
the books, the nocturnal hammocks, 
the laundry room in the pale gray watery sunrise, 
escape rooms and baby squirrels and whiteboards and lounge movies,
the smorgasbord of experiences tangling us together—
I missed you before you were even gone.

And life came so fast and 
so fun in the firehose of freshman year, and 
I knew it wouldn't last but
I wanted it to. I wanted to proudly wear the red jackets as our uniform 
in many puzzle hunts to come and
I wished our voices could hover, quivering, 
in the luminous-black culvert until dawn 
every night, and I needed you 
to hold my little armadilloed self pressed to the hallway carpet.

We slept curled on your floor, 
where I felt safe.

About the Author: Glühbirne
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