I can’t believe I’m writing my midterm.
Scary, isn’t it?
This class was great.
Really, it was.
Amazing.
And now we all get
to move on.
I’ll remember
most of you.
That’s the best that I can promise.
I’m sorry I can’t
promise you more
than a glisten of recognition
when you pass in the halls,
but that’s more
than I can promise
anyone else.
And I wish that I could promise you
that glisten
until the day that I’ve got no more
strength to glisten with,
but I can’t do that either.
You’re like my chapstick;
you’ve done so much for me
—so much that I can’t—couldn’t—
haven’t returned—
but I’ll lose you soon enough,
and the problem
is that you did so much and meant so much
but I’m a greedy, greedy soul
and couldn’t name exactly what you did
or what you meant,
so there’s nothing to actually keep .
Good can’t last forever.
That’s why the good die young.
And even though you were great—amazing—
you’ll die along with these words.
You’ll become ancient and ambiguous,
like the thoughts of the students from 1971
that knew they were infinite, too.
It doesn’t mean you weren’t great;
you just weren’t as invincible
as you felt when you got a little vulnerable
and everyone clapped for you.
But don’t worry.
I’m not foolish enough to think
that you’ll remember me, either.
We’ll forget each other, see,
and it won’t be for better or worse.
But let me just thank you
for being the one thing
to leave me
without
abandoning me.
Without taking
the breath
from my
heart
and leaving me—
gasping.
-Kelly Fahey
