I'm not stalking

In the Sanborn Room
the ancient leather chairs
gather in the after hours, sharing
stories of the students who have dozed in them,
heads turned into their tall wings, sheltered,
dreaming of algorithms, battles and fraternities
while snow piles up against the tall paned windows
that stretch their checkered paws from floor to ceiling
while dust mounts on the shelves that circle the room,
the books that no one reads, their dark green spines
growing brittle with age and disuse.

I once sat in your lap
in one of those dark chairs,
my legs draped over its cushioned arm,
my cheek against your chest.
Wrapped in your warm embrace, I felt I'd reached
a peak experience, and sighed -- as I sigh now,
thinking of you, a simple ferry ride away,
yet unresponsive to my pleas for your attention.
I'm not stalking you,
just wondering how your life turned out,
and if, like me, you found the love you craved.