i lived at the end of a hall of girls. 

i lived at the end of 
a hall of girls. 
we shared two bathrooms in Wilkinson-- 
each with two shower stalls; i would wait
until i heard no faucet or shower-head 
& that's when i would slip
into the tile room. mist on the mirrors 
from other girls. girls coming & going,
girls laughing. girls with headphones in. 
freshmen year everyone was beautiful.
i learned people's names 
by writing them on note cards &
quizzing myself at my wooden desk at night.
my bedroom had one window that looked out
over the whole campus. the best nights 
were when my roommate was gone & 
my boyfriend wasn't there. i could
stand in the middle of the room
as if it were all mine. the sounds 
all mine. the cool carpet & 
smell of clean walls, all mine.
i sometimes pretended to be
a ghost who lived in the building
all alone. i had died here 
my freshman year & never left. i was
eighteen. everyone was an 
adult. there was something
disembodying about the showers.
almost always someone would
enter after me & start showering
in the other stall. i could hear
their shower flip flops squeak.
a bottle of shampoo opening. 
fingers through hair--scrubbing
the scalp. did she listen 
to me? we were separated only
by a plastic divider. 
we were there with bodies
& we were both portioned out 
into segments of rooms. into white 
dining hall plates. into patterns
to & from classrooms. our books
splayed like dead birds on our desks.
we were sharing the same 
staircase. we were on the phone
in the stairwell. my roommate 
had long straight brown hair & 
all her decorations were color coordinated:
orange & pink. she kept beer 
in the mini-fridge.
she called her boyfriend sometimes 
& i put my headphones in so 
i wouldn't hear. sometimes we showered
at the same time. i would try to 
finish before her so we didn't
walk out at the same time. 
that might have been the closest 
i got to any of them. 
the smell of cucumber melon 
& tropical breeze shampoos. 
the hot water pouring 
over our bodies.