If only we had met
with briefcases in our hands.
Not with the weathered laces
that kept our shoes tight
or the weight of our chemistry
books in our bags.

You never failed a test
to impress my shape-shifting mind.
Your detailed notes
filled my page.
You wrote with colors of passion.
You were excelling,
earning 100s—
while I was dropping
to zero.

I am too lucky to let you fail me.
And you’re too consumed
with schoolwork
to notice that I am failing you.
I wish I did not keep my reports
confidential,
and that you could read my files.

I guess I am afraid of losing you
forever— for right now I’d be okay,
as long as I know that your pen
is still taking notes.
I do a lot of guessing lately.
Your straights As are what I want
in the time to come.
But at this crazy moment,
I want to keep guessing,
without the pressure
to keep my grades up.

I just hope you will be there
with your briefcase,
ready to shake hands again.