Move away from walking all day and movie times. Don't remember her old persistence on how we absolutely had to be friends.

Don't talk about those all night nights and music turned up high.

Don't talk about the bike ride for 13 miles or the one that we took late that one night. With the squeeking tires and all.

Don't talk about how we smiled, toothy smiles for half an hour to distract us from the tears that really wanted to come. Don't talk about. The earings I gave, the necklace I lost to you. The talks we had and my growing concerns. Don't talk about the tears, or joints, bowls, and swings.

Don't talk about hand clapping games, and math class days. Laughing in reading class, or joking with pencils that squeek.

Forget about the late night races and how we always slept real close at friends'. No more laughing and dancing in mirrors, hopping fences in ally Ways for cool cherry limeades and frys.

I once asked her after I got my first hickie, "Do you ever get that feeling in the pit of your stomach? That aggravated tickling feeling, where you almost feel sick with yourself, because you know that you are growing up and you can never go back."
She knew exactly what I was talking about, then.

But when its time to say goodbye is when the birthdays are forgetten and the dried flowers are never claimed. When the hand painted card is never seen and the bought CDs intended for her to relax are never listened to. When the calls are no longer returned and an "I Love You" is responded with an okay, goodbye.

Okay. Goodbye.