Most late nights, after our papers have been written
and our terrible shifts at gas stations and 
supermarkets worked, my friends gather, all 
of us, boys and girls, packed into a warm
dorm room, crammed onto twin beds, sitting 
on carpet floors, everyone talking, laughing 
at dirty jokes, retelling our favorite stories, 
singing, drinking, dancing, holding hands, 
all sharing in it, leaning on each other's 
spirits, holding onto every slight moment like a rope
in the summer wind. Then, at a point in every
night, the reminiscing begins: we recall memories 
from before the expectations of twenty,
being ten years old, the mornings spent picking 

dandelions, softly blowing at the white fluff 
domes, watching the seeds flow through the air,
imagining each one is a little dove 
fluttering to its nest or a cloud dispersing 
as it meets the edge of the open sky.
We decide, after all that sweet longing, that 
there was a perfect freedom in our imaginations then, 
a ceaseless stream of possibility we have, seemingly,
lost somewhere as if it were a favorite hat. 
Then, when it gets too late, we say our goodnights, 
our see-you-tomorrows, final hugs, kisses, and begin 
our marches back to our beds, dreading the pale weight 
of the next day, ignorant of the naked blossoming 
begonias we nurture night by night, dance by dance.​
​​
Nate Metz (he/his) is an undergraduate writer attending Santa Clara University. He has most recently been published in The Journal of Undiscovered Poets (forthcoming), Prometheus Dreaming, and Bluepepper. As an avid reader and writer of poetry, he sees poetry as a means for self-expression and a critical way to explore our shared humanity.
image: Inga Seliverstova via Pexel