Forensic tournament afterword.
Sneaking a smoke in front of the host school.
Your Kool makes a veil, around your head,
angelic and wispy, menthol scent of burnt offering.
Big black parka’s faux fur lined hood is a halo,
and your dark hair is buffeted by the cold wind.
It’s November, and these tournaments will be over
by Christmas, but early nights and cold winds are sacred to us.
You broke again Ally. You won again. I’m an also ran.
Your pieces are sacred and bright. Mine are desperate, sad.
But we both wrestle with demons, whose tails choke our hearts.
We both find solace in winter, when no one makes any promises.
Your cigarette is burned out, and it’s time to get on the bus,
and ride over the plateau back home to Heritage, and we’ll sit
beside each other, maybe your head on my shoulder,
and we won’t say a word, but we’ll feel closer than heaven allows.
Head back to the crowd inside, all those other kids,
all those friends that feel distant and full of words.
You hold my hand until we get to the door, then your hand drops.
But though we know The Devil, we also know hope, and I know you love me.
And I know, I love you…………