If I die in Chi Gam tonight,
And there is every chance that I will,
Tell your mom I tried.
Bodies are crashing,
Flying out like their orbits are crunching underfoot,
And I’m doing all the defensive shimmying
That slick tennis shoes will allow.
My hand’s on the small of your back and I’m trying to
Shove out a path for you,
Poke some holes in these walls of bodies but chivalry
Seems frivolous when I’m getting more intimate with half the crowd
Than I ever have with you.
But that’s okay.
Because I remember walking you home and checking to see
If your roommate was there,
Twirling my hair on the staircase waiting
For something wonderful.
I remember when you pressed your arm to mine at that Shakespeare play,
When we matched the swell of our chests,
Stuttering every down beat to breathe together.
I don’t know how many more breaths we’ll get
With drunk boys wheeling like asteroids and that dancer
In steel-toed boots remembering how to high-kick,
But I’m happy that we’re here.
Text me when you get home.
Scott Sorensen ‘26 died later that night of an airborne pong paddle to the forehead. The save
was good.