Designated Doodler

I wanted to write this for them Whoever it was That died on the sun-kissed highway Right outside my office In the morning, last Monday When coworkers stood at grand glass windows to see The crash, the reason why frustrated drivers wondered what was taking so long, what was going on Sitting in a glittering line of rumbling motionless cars that was hundreds of headaches long You could hear the roar of the air  being sliced by metal blades The familiar whine of multiple sirens Yelling above the rush hour parade And in the building Workers asked workers in hushed words as they arrived up the stairs "Did you see it? Have you heard?"

The night couldn't go by fast enough. As soon as Jim reached his quarters, he began stripping off clothes. Garments the colors of sun and space lay strewn in a wobbly line to his and Spock's shared bathroom. This was one moment he really wished that they didn't have adjoining rooms. He punched in the settings for shower (a rare treat)…and stood with his face beneath burning water that licked hot trails down his body. He made little effort to actually clean himself, he just leant against the cool surface of the shower wall and closed his eyes. It had only been a few days since his rescue. And he'd spent a few nights in sick bay at Bones' insistence. But physically, he was fine. God, could you imagine if they'd gotten a hold of Spock instead of him? They'd never have made it past the mental shields that the Vulcan had spent his entire life building. But Jim…Jim was weak. A heavy sigh filled the small space. It was getting so humid that it was hard

*My first attempt at a Sestina in two years so don't judge too harshly :P* Blue carpet tongues unfold Down the corridor I see in dreams Walls cool beneath my finger tips I search for you at the end of the hall Seven years late, I take my time Just a student late for Algebra Two I look, but never see you I should have turned when told But I love to love, I love to pine Love is never what it seems,  not in life, not in dreams, not at all Much like falling asleep, I slipped Your door is locked tight like lips Cold air breathes out the bottom, cuts through Beneath the wood that stands tall And even a hand so bold Can't tear at it's seams Open the door or move time No act of hand or heart could make you mine Get the lock to turn, the metal to click But such stories are fodder for dream screens So let the movie play, and get me back to the life in which I'm enrolled I should thank the orange and blue cinder block wall