My heart is stuck in these spaces with you. The open, loud room where we first met. The corner of that room where I asked you out. The field outside where you said yes, your blue eyes looking down at me. The big, weathered house down the street surrounded by trees where we kissed for the first time. It was your first kiss but not mine. And then, later, the little library with the brick walls and the sad-looking tree outside where we kissed for the last time, though neither of us knew it at the time. The carpeted room where you broke up with me a month later. My bedroom where I cried and wondered, why, again, I wasn't good enough.
Much later, the last time I spoke to you, in a loud, crowded room and you told me you were moving to Alabama with your dad.
You were playing your guitar in a dark corner with some people I didn't know the last time I saw you.
I don't miss you anymore.
