As I passed through the empty halls last night,
the stale smell of public education burned in my nostrils.
I paused outside a door: my door.
And not having the key, I couldn't enter.
I looked through the small window and could make out the shadows of desks
and debris

and it was clear to me
that just as in life and in love,
we are easily replaced and forgotten.

What would it take to be treasured
like a smooth stone found on the shore
that was kept in your pocket always
and held tightly between your fingers?

How would it feel to be needed
and noticeably missed by you?

I suddenly felt ordinary and bland.

A janitor passed on his waxer.
I jerked back from my battered door,
smiled weakly at him.

There was a moment of understanding between us.
He knew this feeling far better than I.