at this point, we're only gonna be old friends;
(the heat that forms from the student section
and travels through sweat and cotton
to enter forearm skin abrasions
for moments at a time)
portrayed by frantic text messages
of non-sequitur obscenities
about the collapse of our great nation.
i can hear worry in their voice,
i can feel kidney stones in their throat
and stress clots in their blood.
if i had a nickel for every time
"future" has been said
in the past three days,
i could afford a college education
or enough to buy the local swim center
so we could debrief more in the kid's pool.
we could listen to water float over the wall
or hold hands and drown in the deep end.
because, in six years,
i'll be alive in New York
or dead in an apartment
and contact lists will be empty,
but i still want to hear their voice.
no matter the pitch,
no matter the context,
because there's no need for nihilism
nor faux philosophy,
only support and optimism.
i know i've hated life the past few months
and sat still with hopes of getting out of here,
but love, platonic or not, can break the wall
we're not sure is going to exist.