Leaaavin' on a jet plane

don't know when I'll be back again.

The move-out date has come and gone again and again as I've run up to Ryan The R.A.'s door to white out my name on the check-out dates list. I'm always part of the pack that's last to leave, the Kids Left Behind every time, and the one chance I get to go home on a decent date, what do I do? Stay, of course.

Leaving early's not how I roll. I stay for the moments you had to be there for, to say goodbye more than once, to be glad for a chance to see them again after I've thought they've gone.

Is this true sadness or just a want for something that I know will be over soon? Cackles and shrieks from the lobby tell me that I won't actually miss 75 out of 80 of these teenage dirtbags, but I'll miss something about it. I'll probably cry out of pure nostalgia and wonder why I cry over people who aren't crying over me, and the crying will hurt me to my bones, but it will be alright because it feels good just to feel.

The summer heat and nights excite me for I don't know what, and remind me of the past and excitement over the unknown. Possibilities. My only hopes are that the nights get hotter. I can't wait.