in ten days,
i'll meet you there
on the thoroughfare,
and it will not be the last time.

the streets of my home state
will become yours in a moment,
and we will share it together,
and it will not be the last time.

we'll go to the theater
where one of my heroes
once played me your favorite song,
and we'll take turns leaning on each other's shoulders
as the film goes on,
and it will not be the last time.

i'll buy you little drinks
that you'll make me take sips of,
and we'll trade bites of food at restaurants
that i've been telling you
that you "HAVE to go to" for years,
and it will not be the last time.

we'll get to finally live out
all the plans we've been dreaming up
since you bought your ticket here,
like wandering down the street
with the charming little shops
and blowing all our money
on innocent little trinkets,
and it will not be the last time.

and at the end of our third day,
i'll refuse to let you escape my arms.
i'll take in the scent of your perfume one last time
as your dad reminds us that
your flight is boarding soon
and my mother begins to hold me back.

you'll board your plane
and shoot off back towards san francisco,
and as much as i despise it
and wish it wasn't so,
it will not be the last time.

and i'll have to learn to live with you
from 1,919 miles away
once more.

the future is dim,
but regardless alight.
in ten days,
we'll find ourselves at the entrance of the tunnel again,
but there will be brightness somewhere,
several months down the road.
we will find it.

we will be okay,
and i'll see you on the 8th,
and then the 9th and the 10th,
and it will not be the last time.