we are uncomfortably close.

the backs of our hands brush against

what could have been.

how can i contain

my panic, your frenzy, the rush

of our collective, impending


i look backwards -

literally -

at the banks of missed chances

(and glances between the lines)

and solemn rows of unread books.

it is in a cold, white-lit library that you and

i will prepare to face what i don’t know

i don’t know.

screaming, kicking, pulling

at the right to be less responsible,

less punctual, less learned

and more free.

(this is an attempt at poetry - about MBBS)