You've lived in three coastal states--
southern, western, and my lifelong eastern.
I've only ever looked
at one horizon--the horizon you're bound
for, and such a very short three years
after I met you, when the year between us
seemed insurmountable, ten months
the difference between a wise fool
and a kid. Now I'm older than you
were then, we've both added inches
and collected bags under our eyes.
You're leaving very soon.
You and I are only schoolmates
for another two days.
Go forth, and I'll try not
to worry so much--but keep your
level head, your good heart, your humor--
and I'll send care packages, and letters,
I'll insist on snail mail as it rapidly
becomes an anachronism, I'll play
my part as the one who frets.
But I know, despite my protests,
you're where you're meant to be.
Go out and cross your third horizon,
disappear over the grey Atlantic--
bon voyage, l'ami.
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