you fly thousands of miles to your old home, you sleep in a bed but are no longer so small, so young.

you've grown, you miss the people who have made you into this changed person, this good lover, the friend everyone comes to with their secrets, the friend everyone comes with to waste their time, to laugh til five am, to dance, to smoke cigarettes, to watch sex and the city, to spoon with, to get fucked up. to sit at coffeetables and talk about all your fuckups. all your happiness. all you love.

you come home and you miss them so big, and so hard, that for the first week you don't even cry. it hasn't sunk in that you won't see them for four months, a long golden summer that you'll spend overseas, the sun dripping from your hips as you dance in the ocean, the pearls in your ears and the diamonds on your fingers as you dress up and go to your perfect investment banking job in the corner office with the ocean view.

you miss never being a burden, you miss that easy phonecall -- see you on the steps, five minutes, and those happy reunions.

you go lay out by your pool, drink your diet coke with lime and wish they could be here. to see your wealth. to see your pool, your big house, your leather interior car as you drive down your perfect suburban streets in the city you love.

to see your old life, to change it, to have them with you, to talk with while youre falling asleep on a big beach towl on your chaise lounge by the sparkling water, the hammock beckoning. the palm trees loom overhead, you tilt your head to watch them waving, you type small words in a white box on your computer screen, wireless by the pool.

you listen to the shins and lay your head down, smile, take a deep breathe and wonder, is it august yet?


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