strangers in this corridor

(context - with the arrival of new freshies, it feels weird that they won't know many of the things that have happened, and they'll take it for granted that this is the way things are.) 

strangers in this corridor 
don’t know of the stories that 
have been lived and told. leaves
me wondering if when the
rain pours this november, will
it drown us all or take just the 
tidbits left from last summer. they 

won’t know of the afternoons
that were passed with poetry, 
sundowns that were craved- light
having faded just enough for it to
be okay to let yourself be held by
another. will they simply be left

in the dark; who will then write 
down these stories if they are 
never narrated in this hallway. who 
will contemplate on them as
the next set of footsteps are 
heard in this verandah.