To the boy I never loved, 

You walked over, reached in my car, and shook my hand. Then it was over. The last time I saw you.

When I was small, the line where the grain fields met the sky through my bedroom window was the edge of the world. I stood on my tiptoes at that window, little fingers pressed hard into the scarred wood of the sill, nose pressed to the window screen that smelled of thunderstorm and dirt.