(per pervyanon’s query)

I’d go out into the streets in DC and talk every day that I could , to whoever would listen. I’d tell them my hopes and fears and opinions and I’d read poetry to those who stopped long enough. I’d be heard, before the end, or die trying.

I’d look people in the eyes. I’d look at the stars.

When I got home, as I would have to eventually, I’d apologize once and no more—there’s no time to waste.

I’d spend hours in the woods where we’d run in high school, and watch nature move on, unheeding, because so much of the world is bound to grind to a halt before the end.

There’s a girl I’d confess a once-powerful crush to. I haven’t anything better than that.

There’s a boy I’d punch in the mouth for past and petty grievances. There wouldn’t be anything better than that.

There’s a girl that I’d forgive for past and grievous pettyness. She’d always been better than that.

There are those I’d seek forgiveness from for my petty, grievous past. I’ll never be able to do better than that.

I would read when before I said I hadn’t the time, and sing when before I’d been afraid to raise my voice. 

I would sleep in the fields one night. I would stay awake as much as I could.

And I would eat a lot Ben and Jerry’s.