warm water

I want to write something that will make you miss me.

All of you.

You country music lovers and jean-short advocates

and you girls who were thinking of going blonde but know, deep down, you shouldn't.

You black-and-white photograph kind of people

Anyone who's ever hugged me in a Walmart in New York when I asked for it.

I want to write about people being the same

About chocolate-or-vanilla questions that get answers similar to the man who started 

twisting the two flavors in a buffet on the edge of Iowa.

I want to stop the evolution of your hearts because I like them in their ribcages

I like them unchanged.

And I've never been into dairy products that weren't ice cream,

but I'm milking every minute of my time left in this town

and nobody cares.

The pain in your chest is just the aftershock of getting left behind on the dry side of Provo

because your best friends were dorm-hopping in the city that didn't want you.

And now I'm scared of being left in a small-town mess

or becoming a mess in a small town.

But today a little boy asked if I was Taylor Swift and I realized 

I hadn't lived a moment of life without missing someone.

And it didn't hurt

until I realized I was alone under the shade of a tree that was only big enough for one.

These two-liners need to stop.

So do I.