Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those
—  Sylvia Plath
She said that she liked the taste of my kisses. She used to whisper that my breath smelled like a weird yet funny mixture of cigarettes and coffee.
Then, she slowly explained, like if it was no big deal, that my lips were the nicotine she was addicted to, and my tongue the caffeine that kept her up.
Now she kisses another man, with another breath, another tongue to taste.
And again i find myself all alone on the rooftop, drinking coffee to stay awake and smoking some cigarettes, trying to forget that we used to wait for the sunset like I’m doing at the moment.
And now i have that painfully familiar taste in my mouth again.
But no one to share it with.
—  Diego, “Town of the Colossus”
I never understood how people could be so excited to move out. As a senior in high school, I am still not sure what they meant. Yes, I look forward to long nights with new people and a future for myself, but there is so much sadness behind it all. When I think about college and what the next few months hold for me, my mind races. My heart beats faster every minute I consider my life away from home. I’ve eaten at the local diner with childhood friends. I’ve spent countless evenings chattering about in the Mexican restaurant across from my high school. I exchange glances with familiar faces in the aisles of the grocery store. There are memories and people here at home that I’m afraid to leave behind. More than anything, I don’t want to forget them. I don’t want to forget the little things, because those are what matter the most. Here, I have learned hardship and love and everything else I could possibly know. This is where I’ve grown up. This is where I’ve lived for eighteen years, and now it’s time to pack up and leave it all behind. What about my mother? How much will she cry when I’m gone, finally living without her? Will my brother shut himself in his room, feeling empty without big sis to lean on or drive him to school every morning? My father won’t know what to do with himself without his little girl. But I’m not so little anymore, and it’s killing me. I’m falling into this abyss we call the real world and it’s filled with so many possibilities. I don’t know where to start. I don’t know what to do. I guess I have to start somewhere, so I’ll make a list. Perhaps I’ll make a list first of everyone I need to say goodbye to. Then I’ll make a list of all of the traditions I need to carry on one last time before I leave. Lastly, I’ll write out all of the things I’ll need to take with me on my journey. Who knows, maybe I’ll be back here again someday. After all, I’m not dying. I’m just moving on.
—  emschleg