Times passes slowly
When all I measure them by
Is the amount of times I spent
With eyes turned to a ceiling
And you poking me with your foot
When you wanted my

I still remember
Shooting marbles across the carpet,
And talking for hours
On end
About the TV shows we were watching
That year.

You always prided yourself in the ability
To know exactly what I meant.

You always told me
That you knew things about me
Before I knew them myself.

“Well, duh,
Of course you want to be a teacher.

What were you thinking?
Wasting your time studying
Stupid formulas and stuff like that?

You’re an English student, for sure.
Always have been.”

I always felt like
Your home was the next logical step –
Take a left,
Take a right,
Down the hill,
Seventh door on the left.
Ring the doorbell,
Say hello,
Climb the steps two stories.

And we always just go from there.

It feels strange to know
You’re not on the seventh door
Down the hill
A block away from me.

But at least we have lying on carpeted floors,
And quiet pitchers in a smoky bar.
At least that doesn’t change