i walked up the drive,
and was reminded
of how little attention
i actually paid to the place
when i had the luxury
of being there.
i never walked the drive,
far too lazy.
just twice,
once there, once back,
two separate occasions.
both at night,
both with company.
i debated hitchhiking,
still lazy.
i picked someone up once.
a third year choreographer.
she was late for a tutorial
and smelt of alcohol.
everyone i walk past has grey hair.
i look out of time.
two years late.
there's no room now
for an art student with a suitcase.
i walked the halls again,
because the door was propped open,
framed with familiar white handprints,
that fit comfortably under mine.
it smelt just as i remembered,
musty, and comforting.
with the paint still peeling on the stair rail,
from where we'd sat for hours,
pulling it off in strips.
i wrote a letter to my room.
the room in which i fell in love,
lost my mind,
and changed my life.
it's just a room.
just a place,
a space.
but so much was shared,
with the air in there.
and i can't explain the relief
that it isn't in rubble.
i hitch hiked back,
or i'd have missed my train.
a lovely man picked me up,
and i felt the drive from a car,
how i remembered it.
we talked about the place,
about it what it did.
he was as upset as i was.
he was the type of person
i'd forgotten existed.
someone who wasn't one of us,
but understood our loss.
a stranger on the street
who felt what i felt.