We were young.
We missed people more than places.
On beach trips with our families,
there were bumper cars, jet skis;
Engulfed, though, by anxieties of absence:
missing out on things back home with our best friends,
our boyfriends, girlfriends,
these supposed angels to whom, for a time, we swore allegiance;
to whom we promised eternity.
I can't even remember their names anymore.
We're older now,
anxieties of absence ever-lingering,
and we don't miss people or places so much,
pining rather for the versions of ourselves we thought we'd be by now.