You were a warm whisper in my ear and you said, "Lets be dancers or pilots or weathermen. We will walk the beaches barefoot in February and fly on planes until the ground feels unstable. We can be anything, anything but alone." That was four years ago when we moved our tassels to the left and grinned into that warm June breeze, four years since we walked away from our tiny, stale town and our friends still trapped inside. We never looked back.
I'm so happy we got away, but sometimes I miss that school. I miss the bench atop that sloping hallway, a collection of names carved into the wood. But I only miss it because you were the one who sat there next to me, laughing at something nobody else would get. I also miss your beat up powder blue Toyota pickup, country music blaring from the left speaker only. Four of us would cram ourselves into that truck, amidst piles of textbooks and clothes, for the two hour drive to the movies and we would sing Gavin Degraw at the top of our lungs.
I used to know everything that happened to you, from your latest boy-toy to what you had for breakfast. Every morning we talked about our lives while putting on our makeup and ignoring our teachers. So much has changed since then.
You are a country away from me now. I think of you often, as I am sure you think of me, but our lives are no longer interdependent. It used to be that whenever something went wrong you were there You could get me through anything, and I'd do the same for you.
But here I am trying to make this into something long and complicated when it's not. All I'm trying to say is this: I miss you.