it was a long time ago, I was cradled in the warm arms of possibility, writing letters to you and spending hours and hours on the phone when our parents thought we were asleep.

it was a year of outsiders and inside me, there were storms, storms I could keep quiet, storms I shared with you, and together we were creating weather patterns that sent a scar across the Midwest.

there was potential. there was a wave coming and we were riding it. there was your voice echoing on our mixtapes. there were a handful of letters. a book of notes. a list of names.

and then there was nothing, and the storms were made to pass, and there was sunshine for a million miles, and then there was no going back. the rope undid, the fabric tore, the music soured, the future vanished with a little gasping whisper.

I couldn't see for the light in my eyes.
I threw away the letters,
put the tapes in a box and just let them rot.

where did you go?
but maybe it was me.

just let the both of us rot.
it's all over now, seamless and invisible, no scar, no wound
nothing except for the twisting pain in my gut when I think back to you and your sky-tinted eyes and sunlight-coloured hair, but even that


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