One night, two months later, while I was sleeping, a surge of creativity hit me like a Mack truck running over a toddler and I hopped out of bed and wrote the most divine poem I’d ever written in my life. It was the culmination of all my trials and tribulations over the years, being locked in the closet, my mentor dying in the car crash, my best friend being shot in an alley, the love Jasmine and I made, and the emptiness I felt in my heart despite it all.
I went back to my room and saw that I had twenty missed calls from Arthur, our coworker, and called him back. I asked him what the matter was, and he told me Stan was dead, that on his way home someone stuck him up in an alley and shot him, took his wallet, and left him to bleed out.
As the months went by, she taught me how to write sonnets, blank verses, golden shuffles, and narrative poetry among other forms. She made me go over drafts again and again until they were either short and powerful or long and thoughtful.