The high school library is ours.
The hallways and classrooms
are left to the ghosts of our youth.
We spoon on a couch in the librarian’s
office, with the sleeping bag, comforters,
we brought from our homes, when the end came.
The sky is grey, end of November, cold is here,
and our city burned and the world kept on,
and we took solace among the pages and tales.
Stories we loved, and study halls and lunch periods
spent writing and reading and dreaming, finding joy
and love when the first bright blue of spring came.
The world spins as our world ends, as all fades away.
We make a world in the only place that ever was ours.
We hide among the wisdom none of the others want.
I tell you tales, whispered in your ear at night,
of an aging knight and a quest for the grail,
and the letters he wrote home to his impossible love.
And the library has it’s own ghosts at night,
the starlight through the windows by the ceiling,
and fires a million light years away are silver sweetness.
The classrooms we leave to gather dust, and the hallways
are too full of our regrets when we thought our dreams
might end up coming true.
Just us and the pages and tales and wisdom no looter wants.
Just us and canned stew on a butane stove, and our dreams,
and the escape of each other’s warmth in the cold, cold night.