Take it down. Gently take the posters off the walls, the doors, the walls of your brain. Be careful not to rip them. Bend the tape back, tuck them away somewhere they'll be safe. They'll be hung up in a new home. Or scattered on the highway during the drive. You choose. Drop those thoughts. The one's you called friends about too late at night. The thoughts they knew you'd have. The ones that are both rational and insane. The ones that comfort and ache. Drop them. Leave them here. In the desert, or in a box, or in storage, or in the trash. YOU CAN'T TAKE IT WITH YOU. There are miles between us. And you say they are good. And I say they are terrifying. And you inhale and agree. And I close my eyes and remember that night in the snow. I promise to write about it. I promise to write. I promise to go. I promise to stay, away.