copy//write

i leaned over as far as i could

and tried to scribble a bit more while he wasn't looking.

maybe he wouldn't mind.

i used to wonder why he didn't come to class every day like everybody else.

does he think he's too good for class?

well actually, if you'd seen his work you'd probably agree.

he's one of those lucky kids who just happens to be gifted for no good reason. straight genius. he'd probably ace the class if he ever actually showed up or turned in work with any kind of consistency. he'll probably do some real good with his life if he ever takes his talents seriously. he'll probably get that same speech in the office again sometime this week.

he turned back around and i swiftly assumed the faux-relaxed, slumped position in my seat like i'd been there all along, like i wasn't wholesale lifting his intellectual property from under his nose.

dammit.

i'd have to wait for at least one more pass to finish making his work mine.

but how is that fair?

he gets to come and go as he pleases?

the rules don't apply to him?

guess not.

my side-eye has gotten so strong i can almost see my own ears,

bending my vision around his slumped shoulders to leech the last bit of gold off his desk...

whew.

got it.

i should really thank him for being here today.

i might actually turn in an assignment for once,

and he gets to raise his F- to an F.

everybody wins.

it's hard trying to pass off someone else's work as your own 

without possessing any actual skill.

unless the fine art of tweaking a little bit of him

to sound a lot like me doesn't count as a skill.

it's totally a skill.

because when he's not here i have to pretend im just having an off day,

or pull a page from his book and take the zero.

better that than admitting i forgot to wake up and bring my intellect to class again.

because when his seat is empty, i am too.

look, if we ever get found out:

that he's masquerading as a mediocre, could-care-less student

who will never get off the ground 

because he doesn't have the stomach to at least beat his wings and look skyward,

getting caught with his work in my hands will be the least of my crimes.

either way, we're still failing.

yeah, it still feels like cheating,

like i don't deserve him.

but maybe it'll work out;

maybe one day he'll take his soiled papers and vivid imagination

and never look back,

reaching outside of these four walls to do what people like him are meant to do:

change the world.

maybe one day, if we're lucky.

but for now,

as i watch him fall back to sleep on his desk,

it's copy and paste.