As I Sit Here

I think of you.

You said you moved from Long Island, that you like it better here. You never liked the beach.

You cross your arms over your chest as you talk about the trees here, the land. The calmness. The people.

I wonder who the you is that was left behind with the crowds and the city and the ocean.

I catch myself staring at you, trying to figure out the gears that wind you up, the ticks and hums I can't hear but I know are there.

Your gangly legs are crossed at the ankle. The jeans are vintage, and just so the shoes, the shirt, the coat. Not hipster vintage. The kind of vintage that makes a kid walk down the hallway like he's hiding something, like he's afraid to look you in the eye because he's seen things look back out at him that twisted him all up inside. My heart thumps, constricts. I suddenly see you in a John Hughes film, and you're the one on the fringes, with your too-short pants, your faded shirt, your floppy hair that doesn't flop like it's supposed to.

But I love you for it. I love your skinny, too-short black jeans, your worn-out shoes, your floppy hair.

I love that when I see you I wonder about your insides.

Yes, I think of you.

And my young friend, I think I understand.

Godspeed.