Im tired of the fleeting weather. Hot when cold is supposed to come home. You’re worth more than this, you know. More than cigarette ashes coating your glass table (the one your mom let you keep) more than crushed beer cans and terrible jobs at grocery stores no one shops at. I’m overwhelmed with the idea that we are more than this town. More than the dirty river we refuse to stop swimming in, more than blue blankets used as curtains and cheese sandwiches poorly made. We are fingertips, day dreams and heated discussions with your bedroom door locked. I found the key that you hid underneath the welcome mat. (Except it didn’t say welcome, it read go away) and ive slid it into place in its lock. Rusted and peeling, yes but still a perfectly good lock and a perfectly good door to push open. Behind it you were hiding. Behind it you were cowering below your parents expectations and the familiarity with endings of fresh beginnings. Isn’t it odd how beginnings,begin? Always unraveling at the ends of another. I want you to know this though. I’m rooting for you. Im rooting for your escape from this small town. I’m rooting for the dirt roads winding to the city, where you belong. Where we belong, buried deep in old library books and each other.