You texted me today,

A link to an Olivia Rodrigo 
song. Always think of you
when I hear this. I really hope
you’re doing well. I grew up
in your bedroom. I’m sure
you remember—playing
minecraft on your iPad at midnight,
felt tie blankets in your basement,
listening to Green Day and All
American Rejects. I remember.
Now you’re a sorority girl
and I’m a poet and somehow
these things are meaningful to us,
and out of the blue you text me
to say you think of me and you
hope I am well. I tell you
I am doing great, though that’s not 
quite true, and I recall 
our girlhood—the whispered
annoyances behind each other’s
backs—about what, I wouldn’t know—
taking sides in the first love, but
by then you were already gone,
weren’t you? And suddenly I’ve gone
from growing up in your bedroom
to grown up, so fast. You know
the clichés, but you remember,
I know, how this all began
in the winter of seventh grade,
writing songs and stories
about our dreams,
as if we had all the time
in the world ahead of us.