I see you
walking past maroon lockers
with Of Mice and Men
tucked slyly
in the back pocket of your jeans

I see you
laughing
on the back of your desk chair
too cool
to keep your feet on the ground

I see you
at the front of the classroom
giving a book report on
the latest in the
Harry Potter series

I make sure to tell you
how it ends, knowing
how upset I’d be if I had died
before the final page
had been written

I make sure to tell you
what you’re missing out on, that
you’re not missing out
on much, that
you’re missed
very much

I make sure to tell you
about running into your parents, about
sending cake to their table and
immediately regretting it,
wondering if
sympathy can ruin chocolate

I give you flowers and
flowers and
flowers and
flowers and
the tassel from my graduation cap

I sit with you and
eat gelato, talk about
your wonderful view of Mother Mary and
the Holston Mountains and
the day of your one-year anniversary
when it snowed
April in Tennessee

I promise you I’ll
put my screenwriting degree to good use
name a main character after you
but I
never made it out to LA
name a child after you
but I
never became a mom
tattoo your initials on my wrist
but I
but I
but I
can’t seem to find excuses for not living
that would be adequate enough for the dead

I dream of you
still young
always young
and I awake
older and
older and
older and
yet

I still see you
walking past maroon lockers
with Of Mice and Men
tucked slyly
in the back pocket of your jeans