THE STUFF THAT COLLEGE DREAMS ARE MADE OF

Dust from broken beer bottles sprinkle over paneled boards.
Your toes navigate through stagnant red cups and cluttered bags.
A carousel of people ritualized, strewn over floors and furniture.
Bodies lying on top of each other, heads pressed together,
Music still gently rumbling in the other room, a morning lullaby.
A shattered iPhone on the nightstand, a joint fizzling on the toilet tank.
Bedsheets separate the aftermath of lovers, upturned shirts and saliva.
Heaps of old stats homework, dog-eared anthologies and bibles,
collect in a brown-stained pile that scamper away as you open the windows.
Outside, the cool ocean breeze stings your face as you gaze back into the horizon.
You fire your carbine into the air, one, two, three shots away,
The ear-splitting cries of youth igniting the end of summer.

This poem is included in The Sophomore Year Experience poetry compilation.

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About Amy

Amy is a freelance writer and artist based in LA. Her hobbies include romanticizing her world, having too many moody thoughts, and wandering through neighborhoods she's never been in.
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