I will no longer be able to walk these halls,
our voices can’t carry through cement,
the day will come where our field and its lights,
will no longer see my sweat.
The backpack I used will be donated,
and a new little kid will see,
the thread a stranger used to fix it,
and the memories it gave me.
I’ll no longer put my phone in a pocket,
and that isn’t so much of a loss,
but I can no longer lounge on the Iliad’s couch,
when I’m tired and grumpy at lunch.
I will no longer complain about AP classes,
because I’ll never take one again,
I will no longer line dance in the middle of class,
or attempt to mumble-rap Eminem.
My homeroom teacher will forget my name,
forget my face and my smile,
and I know that I can’t change a single thing,
so I’ll visit every once and a while.
Thursday nights I saved for friends,
but soon they’ll be something I grieve,
when suddenly I hear the bell,
Do I really have to leave?
