We flickered (for all our different angles we claimed to hold the same luster)
as nebulous lightning bugs or as a blanket of far-distant embers would.
We hadn’t grouped off then, freshman year (those melinna ago)
yet our roving bodies of backpacks and school books
found each other (a fusion all our own), and
we attempted to remain close as semester and
season slid us, slid us into further expansion,
but we kept missing each other’s calls
or texts or jokes about the future,
and by the end we were—I was
looking up at all those scraps;
graduation was a supernova
of tassels flying golden:
there are years
of light (and dark)
and opinion and perception
between us—far away, we seem close.
We seem like we’re holding hands or arms
or throats or legs, gasping, blinding, blazing to each
other about firsts (acceptance letter, diploma, goodbye).