That day we stuffed your little blue car full of everything you'd ever owned. Playing Tetris with bags and amps and old books. You slammed the back shut with prideful gusto and your roommate's mom handed you an Obama sticker to use as a seal. The night before we'd sat on your floor as you went through your dvds and handed me a stack of things that you couldn't take with you, things that you'd wanted me to see. Movies whose covers I scoffed at for their fictional depictions of love. Movies I shoved away amongst my collection of slasher flicks to collect dust for four years. I buried my feelings for you along with them and stifled my tears as I kissed you good-bye and you got in your car and drove off chasing Los Angeles, big Hollywood dreams. Leaving suburban failures and my dysfunction in your wake. If I'd known you'd be coming back for me after only a few weeks things could have been different. If I'd known maybe I wouldn't have moved on.