The Boy Across the Country

My, have we grown.

I know that it's been several years since we last saw each other; you visited my then-boyfriend and me with an eight-hour-old burger from three hours into the future in one hand and your emotions for me in the other. You walked with my then-boyfriend and me to his house and walked me back to the lot. In the middle of the canyon, I slipped on a strong root, causing a rip in my jeans and a scrape on my knee. You hoisted me on your back after watching me limp up the trail, straining to fit through the cut holes in the fence. You helped me over the metal and onto the sidewalk, where we proceeded to walk towards the high platform. And we just sat. And talked. Caught up.

You were crying on my lap when we had our last comfortable conversation, when we were last able to look each other in the eye. You told me where your heart laid, and I stopped. It was windy, drops of rain darting at us, and you put your hood over my head as your white tee moved rapidly with the wind, your tears striking the cement, larger drops than the rain itself. You said your goodbyes and good-lucks to me, and I said my sorries to you. I took off your jacket, wrapped it around you, and left.

It's been nice talking to you lately. And my, have we both changed.