first row, on the seat furthest to the right: you.
third row, on the seat furthest to the right: me.
it was the first day
of our junior years, yours your last here.
it was the first day,
and when i saw you walk in, your hair:
a wave of bright teal piled atop a head
full of wonders and poems,
i thought to myself.
i thought to myself
don't think about it.
you don't know anyone,
and you don't need the worry that might bring.
she might be a ramona flowers, but you
are in no way a scott pilgrim.
you don't need a manic pixie dream girl,
and besides,
who needs a new kid if they're graduating that year?

first row, on the seat furthest to the right: you.
third row, on the seat furthest to the right: me.
second quarter of the second semester had started,
the impending terror of midterms upon us;
this your last, and mine my worst.
you came to class every day
going to your seat
talking with pablo and talking of things
that i could only dream of talking with you about.
of things
that i could only look up on wikipedia
thinking that would be the closest i would get
for it was better to stay away than cause any trouble,
and besides,
who needs a kid who can't speak in front of themselves?

second row, on the seat to the left of the furthest right: you.
third row, on the seat furthest to the right (still): me.
a new semester called for a seat change,
and yours was one seat forward and one seat to the right
of where i would scratch down notes, keeping thoughts to
self and
hopes in mind.
it became clear now
that i couldn't simply pass each day
when all i wanted to do was get to know you.
we had spoken once,
maybe twice,
and each time left me grinning.
i had given you my phone number,
saying that perhaps thrifting
or a movie
or a party
might be something 'cool'.
i don't know what you did with my number.
my phone has buzzed time and time again,
but each time it doesn't leave the kind of impact
that knowing you
or talking to you might.
i e-mailed you before your slam,
wishing you luck,
and although you didn't see it until a week and a half had passed,
you calling me a 'sweetheart' brought a s***ty day
to a good start.
passing up vocab word cards,
your fingers fumbled against mine
leading a grin onto your face,
paired with the words
well, that was romantic.
i didn't have an interest in bukowski,
in the beat generation,
in small coffee house poetry slams
in that fifties diner down the street
or you,
with your name beginning with an end and
ending with an 'a'.
but now,
knowing that it's something you can show me?
i'm curious.