we peaked on the phone.
“… you’re still lovable.”
our worlds (world) were best when they were parallel. we shared hours and air space, beds and balconies, the night/early morning, no. 9s, word counts and too-long paragraphs, notes/secrets, black ink and blue ink, forty pages every other night. i had twenty-four, and i spent a lot of them with you.
there were boys, but they were only important enough to write about. we discussed their collective blue eyes, their legs. soccer players. nobody had anybody’s heart. (i might have had his; i might have accidentally had it for a long time). we described them, used them, improved them, worsened them, twisted them. they danced on our pages, writhed in our words. and we turned them in and left them behind (not for dead–the professor said we weren’t allowed to kill anyone off). because after the intricacies of certain late nights, we [you and i] still greeted the same cold morning on the same long couch. braving the day, i guess…
we’ve turned circles since then. it’s all a waltz, these four (three) years. each spin shifted us slightly farther apart, a fraction of a step at a time. we’re okay; we were better once.
