At the back of the library
sits a dejected round table,
its legs shaky,
wood dulled after years of
seating outcasts.
This is my table.

In the middle of the library
sit a few rectangular tables,
filled with the kids who belong.
I watch their mouths move,
their eyes dancing,
dancing away from my gaze.

The walk to the round table is one of
"wish you could be us."

And I see him,
sitting at the edge of a rectangular table.

My legs become like that of my table's:
shaky, knees weak.

I'm accustomed to admiring from a distance,
but I want to grow accustomed to his diction,
how he talks to me with a "this is temporary"
and to them with a "this is better;"
his imagery,
the lopsided smile that grows wide when he
talks to the brunette on the track team;
his theme,
his purpose,
his everything.

But who am I?
Hunched over a book,
a knight at the round table.

amidst the decaying, black soil, a daisy
Blooms
neither a figment of one's imagination, nor abrasively prominent,
it sits quietly
Hope
defiant amongst the encumbering pain
a lone promise unyieldingly rooted

Heartbeat limps
into my ears as I perfunctorily
greet your memory.
The slate of recollection wiped
clean
by a year-long flood.
Good.
Passersby on the street - your
memory and me.

Heartbeat finally caught
up to steady-drum-wit.

I'm glad, I am glad now -
you exist
only as a breath-steam image
on my glasses.

I got a new pair this year
so I could see more clearly.