I know we have these months ahead,
and soon you will be off, happier,
brimming with knowledge and passion and life
But I cannot let your fingers slip
from the warmth and sweat of my broken hand,
so I tighten my grasp and clench through my
bitter nervous system's stings.
Like this, I am moving through the days.
I am self- aware.
It is frozen far below the surface.
Will anyone hear the first crack in Spring,
the steady thaw of Summer,
when the days of watching, bleary-eyed, as you tell a story
from the floor of our friend's room
are gone?
When the workers arrive in hundreds,
armed with their ice-picks,
ready to dig it out of me.
When I am driving home, delirious,
and no one protests to change the music.
And I look down to find my hands are empty,
are stone.
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