for the time that you allowed me to lean over
and steal a kiss in the stairwell, as we passed each other briefly
on our respective ways to geometry. And not just
for giving me something to brag about
with Joey at lunch the next day, or even
to have something to smile about
at night, while lying alone. No, I want to thank you
for the beauty of it all, the truth. The way
you just gave a brief smile
and walked away, and I had to store that
to get through the whole rest of the week. True,
at age fourteen, a week can seem long enough
to grow up and die, and we could lie
on the halo of grass outside the school
and pretend not to hear the ringing bells,
each one announcing another period
of our lives gone and disappeared. And,
if you say that time is sacred,
space an abyss, bodies just shadows
stretched nervously across an empty lawn,
then I'll be that little flickering light
in the stairwell once more, each bulb trying
so hard to stay lit till the kids go home.
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