Now I'm 5 years old and punching the boy who tried to take a picture up your skirt.
Now I'm 11 and swaping spit with you in the shadows of the church after Sunday School.
Now I'm 16 and walking you home at 6am so my mom doesn't catch us sharing a bed.
Now I'm 18 and holding my hand against the glass between us, minutes away from a bus that'll take me far away from this town.
Now I'm 23 and I'm living with you and we eat dinner together each night after work.
Now I'm 24 and I'm giving you a letter one morning telling you why I can't do this anymore and we're spending one last night together, in tears.
Now I'm 25 and you make me laugh and I make you laugh and we agree that our jobs come first and they do and you leave and I stay.
Now I'm 27 and it's my birthday and we sleep in the same bed but we don't kiss and you're the opposite of everything I know.
Now I'm 28 and I'm packing a car with everything I own, heading for a plane that'll take me far away.
Now what.
