saving the world or saving me,
save the world.
It is winter 2007, and the dorm is quiet
as we lay in bed in that transient hour
when the college has ground to a stop,
for one precious hour before the gears churn again,
like a coal train engine in the yard, groaning
to a halt with steam mingling with the mist.
It is the only time we have for each other
when philosophy and esoteric percolations
bubble up from the depths of muddled academia.
Time to think, when our brains have finally
stopped gasping for time, and we can think
about if we can live with our lives--
If we are still becoming the people we hoped to.
We are lucky to have this hour while
the halls are split by gashes of light under
doors and spilling around curtains by scattered students
frantically toiling into the night.
Uh huh, she says, half-asleep, tucked under my arm.
And if you have to choose between
saving you or saving me,
save yourself.
I know it's a little macabre, but just in case
I want you to know,
this is what I want you to do--
I don't want to die, but I am ready--
you're not. I've got God. I'm saved. You're not.
Does that make sense?
Yeah. It does, she says, slightly more awake.
I wish you knew God--
Babe, no offense, but, I've seen
how you've struggled with your god,
and I never want to know him.
I can't understand why your god would let
the things that have happened to you, happen to you.
Does that make sense?
Yeah. It does, I say.
It is summer 2015, and the execution date is set.
I lay next to her, listening to her gently snore.
I am different now, older, slower,
living without that borderline mania
that forced me to attack all things in life with rabid ferocity
until I collapsed--
And I have completely--
now I simply shuffle
from battle to battle.
My limbs betray me--
they shake with fatigue--
My mind is not as quick or sharp,
although its depth has increased.
And my heart, my heart races with disease,
instead of the strong, slow, steady beat of youth.
I say softly, nose against nose,
When I am gone, save yourself.
We are lucky to have this hour while
the halls are split by gashes of light under
doors and spilling around curtains by scattered students
frantically toiling into the night.
Uh huh, she says, half-asleep, tucked under my arm.
And if you have to choose between
saving you or saving me,
save yourself.
I know it's a little macabre, but just in case
I want you to know,
this is what I want you to do--
I don't want to die, but I am ready--
you're not. I've got God. I'm saved. You're not.
Does that make sense?
Yeah. It does, she says, slightly more awake.
I wish you knew God--
Babe, no offense, but, I've seen
how you've struggled with your god,
and I never want to know him.
I can't understand why your god would let
the things that have happened to you, happen to you.
Does that make sense?
Yeah. It does, I say.
It is summer 2015, and the execution date is set.
I lay next to her, listening to her gently snore.
I am different now, older, slower,
living without that borderline mania
that forced me to attack all things in life with rabid ferocity
until I collapsed--
And I have completely--
now I simply shuffle
from battle to battle.
My limbs betray me--
they shake with fatigue--
My mind is not as quick or sharp,
although its depth has increased.
And my heart, my heart races with disease,
instead of the strong, slow, steady beat of youth.
I say softly, nose against nose,
When I am gone, save yourself.
