Two Ships In The Night
Pieces of us are left there and there, places we shared when we meant nothing to one another. We were like two ships in the night, passing through and biding time, waiting until we were both ready to stand still at a crossing.
By 
Lauren Suval
I. Our imprints mark the same halls,
books in hand, class in session,
the same paths midday.
We are two adolescent bodies,
coming of age under the same roof.
You with a blue slurpee tongue, carefree and loud,
me with a bagged lunch and a head full of reflection.
You in the drama room, brave and vulnerable,
never minding teenagers who judge and scrutinize
And me at my desk,
starting on the night’s homework,
shying away from that world,
which could have been mine,
recoiling into my thinner skin.
II. Our imprints mark the same campus grounds;
past the student center and the dining hall
and the library.
Past the yellow tulips come spring
when endless possibility seems plausible.
You roaming rambunctious streets after midnight
me waiting to get into a sleazy club, feeling lost.
You working in the lab during the day,
trying to fix what was broken,
your heart calling out for a remedy
And me yearning for dates as autumn unfolds
and crumpled leaves scatter around me,
hoping to fix a heart that was broken, too.
III. Pieces of us are left there and there,
places we shared when we
meant nothing to one another.
We were like two ships in the night,
passing through and biding time,
waiting until we were both
ready to stand still at a crossing. 
