At the end of the day

Today I saw everything.

Not glowing-epiphany everything, just all the hazard signs in a dorm 

where Trey Dye walked in with cleats on his shoulder 

and the boys were whispering about the jacket around my waist 

and I saw everything.

I saw post-workout foreheads and a crowd of good hair and swollen arms.

And one boy said there were rumors about pretty girls in building 9,

but we left just in time for the brawny boy to miss the coach's curfew

and I remembered that college was seconds away

and the boy that wouldn't make eye contact reminded me of someone.

She said something about crazy love,

how some boys refuse to let you feel lonely, even if you need to be.

But college is not about voids to fill and spaces to shrink.

I am a walking wastebasket begging to be filled 

and I don't want people to take the tangible things from me.

They're not worth taking, I promise.

I want to fall in love with nails in the wall

and notebooks on the shelves

and half-price appliances in a grocery store with good fruit.

And her new husband works nine-hour days, but the apartment is still clean

and the pictures are getting hung

and her eyes are pretty.

She probably cried last night about midterms and the stained carpet

and he doesn't understand the rage

but they still love each other, so it's not worth an apology

because she's going to see his post-workout de-stress in the bathroom mirror

and forget that textbooks are heavy and bleach burns the carpet.

I don't know how we fit 9 kids in a 5-seater car with a pair of crutches

and college boys don't wear as much cologne

and maybe I like his better on the edge of my bathroom mirror.

I'm 10 pages away from finishing a book and I'm procrastinating it 

because I don't want to read a new one.

I like this one.

Infinity is funny that way.

And she said something about a stolen bike in a Texas town,

her husband works late and the garbage comes too early

and they leave the notes on the bathroom mirror because 5am forgets what 3am felt like

and that's when he woke up 

and she fell asleep.

But they probably love each other even with the overcooked dinners

and his barrel rolls through the front door to catch an hour of Harry Potter every Tuesday

and her laundry playlists that come with the cheap groceries

and they probably love each other for the batting eyes

and all the nights they left the basement light on.

Yet here I am, 18.6 years old with nothing but a pair of J Crew sunglasses

a diploma that doesn't matter, some leggings, an unused tennis racket,

and a collection of wool socks.

I'm not under the tweedy lights of my first apartment with a wedding ring.

I'm not a sweats-advocate who lives for Tuesday nights and the grocery budget.

I'm not sitting by a lamp on a cheap-quilt queen sized bed

thinking about finance and questioning the rinse cycle on the dishwasher.

I'm in the heart of a home at 1:04am.

In mediocre pain, after a night in Provo with boys who thought we were museum artifacts,

contemplating wait lists and imagining the taste of crepes in the morning

and Friday nights that smell like campfire smoke and rainwater.

And I'm home and it's home and it's okay.