Here's a poem to you,
the boy with the tousled hair,
black scrubs, warm smile.
Who knows if we'll
ever meet again,
but it's for the best right?
I miss the gentle way
you checked on us,
promising we'd be safe.
My heart still warms
at the memory.
And just past eleven,
when we were
supposed to be sleeping,
I heard you say my name
outside the door,
letting the night shift know
"they've been here for awhile".
And it made me sad,
and it makes me sad.
But thank you for
seeing more than
my history,
for asking if I was okay,
for repeating the question
when we both knew I wasn't.
