Growing Apart
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A year from now, you and I will be strangers again.
A year from now, I'll move to a new city.
I'll find new people:
classmates, roomates, and friends of friends,
and we'll have the times of our lives,
during a quick lunch between classes,
or during a conversation that drags on late into the early morning.
Together, this place, this state being together,
will be something we'll learn to call home.
That's something you and I used to do.
A year from now, you'll stay in our home town.
You'll find new people too,
maybe in the same way I did,
or maybe it'll be easier,
since we've already lived here all our lives.
This place has always been a home to you and I,
but the difference between us
is that your people are already here,
and mine I've yet to meet.
A year from now, you and I will say goodbye
to the versions of ourselves that survived the past four years together,
now having to learn how to grow up apart without growing apart.
We're not the same people we used to be,
and even though I know your name and your face,
the parts of you I grew close to
will start to shed away and fall
like tree leaves in autumn.
And then, my friend, you and I will be strangers again.