from my hometown back to college

got delayed so many times it was nearly 

morning by the time we departed. 

the man sitting next to me was not a man 

 

so much as he was an overgrown boy

sent off by his parents, just as i was, to learn

how to become human, and he chewed 

on his fingernails the whole time 

 

we revved up for departure. i kept my window 

open although we could not see,

letting in a silent square of night. i believe 

the dark makes children of us all. i don’t remember

 

closing my eyes, but when i awoke

from a dark, dreamless sleep, my head 

was pillowed on my neighbor’s chest,

and his fingers, bitten to the quick, were

 

threaded through my hair. we parted flushed, 

with murmured apologies. i do not know 

his name. that was a long time ago. i’d bet anything 

he thinks himself a man now, big and strong 

 

and unafraid of the dark or death or turbulence, 

and his nails are neatly trimmed and maybe even painted. 

i still think about the softness of his sweater. when we 

touched down, it was into the cool benevolence 

 

of a new dawn, rich with the promise of 

change. i wonder if we did.