is silly. 
Call me Barbara, 
call me Deborah,
but don’t call me tomorrow,
I’ll be far, far away.

6 hours by air and 20 minutes by road,
and I’m there,
between red caps and blue,
between what was meant to be and you,
between knowing how it ends and not knowing what to do.

Honey floats through the air as I feel the oatmeal-fluff carpet under my feet,
and I’m left remembering sophomore year chemistry
and how long our hair was 
and scraping stickers off the inside of our lockers
and the then-too-distant, now-so-close dreams of college.
The future starts on Thursday, 
and I haven’t even packed.