At fifteen you showed me the thrill out of life I always craved and If I wasn't such a pessimist, I would have told you I wanted to, too.
You would drive me around in your car, drifting with the winds at midnight smoke sessions.
At sixteen you stopped seeing her, and her, and her. You stared to talk about her, crying about her. You called me and you called, my god you called. I would let you drive me around, holding fingers with the smell of once faded smoke residue on your car seats.
At seventeen we went to a janky *** motel and I watched you transform into the glistening end of a lit herb. You took me to the end of a long road that was our life together, the end of a friendship. You let me drive your car while holding fingers and telling each other things. I told you what my favorite song was. You told me it could work.
At seventeen you told me I was pretty. At seventeen you took my virginity. At seventeen you announced 'i love you' on the beach at midnight.
At eighteen it was me, and you, and the world. I would drive you around in my car. I would wake up, naked, pressed against your body, clinging like it was life. At eighteen I told you I was leaving. You wanted to come. At eighteen it was me. At eighteen it was you.
At nineteen I left.
At nineteen I still don't know why I did.
At semi-twenty am I still wondering how you are and if you think of me.

I wrote you as poetry. I am so sorry.
I should have written you as non-fiction.