I can still feel the gravel-mixed concrete
leaving marks on my khaki-covered legs
while we'd chat and sit
cross-legged in the parking lot—
after classes
after the other students went home for the day.
Inside, the alphabet played matchmaker and
deemed us locker neighbors for most of our
high school careers, but
we stayed friends.

Fast forward to our final year, when you
approached me with a bouquet of purple and
a prom sign, and we went on what was my
first date. That summer, I explored a
wonder of the world and we
kept in contact by screens. But,
by the time I came back, that
ever-present boyish grin of yours, 
like a stamp on your face, didn't
match mine anymore.

Six years is long enough to know
good qualities from a string of facts—
you were the constant
you are still safe
you are still home to me.

Reagan Fleming