There were days when we would grasp our pencils
as if they were the cause of all our troubles,
when really they were the only things that were a constant.
There were moments when we looked too far forward,
and we missed things that were right in front of us,
when we pined for those we had not yet lost—
moments that made us question ourselves, our choices, our futures.

Maybe we do say the wrong things,
and maybe we think we know the answers,
but there is no space between the lines we carve ourselves
unless we fall asleep too early
or we decide to go out for food instead of writing down our futures in pen.

For some of us,
there has been time to learn how to say sorry
or to tell someone that we love them.
Others have watched and waited to hear these very words.
There have been days when we look in the mirror and we don’t see ourselves,
but at least we recognize some variation of who we are.

It is there, in these
moments which feel like they should be more meaningful,
that the secrets we are too fearful
to speak are hiding:
                We’re afraid that we’ll miss each other,
                but we’re terrified of letting go.