She asked me to write her a piece of my poetry, back when we were both sixteen and wide-eyed about the world. I thought I had loved her, and I realize now she had only loved the way I looked at her. I look back at the three photographs I kept of us. Her blonde hair swinging and those baby blues are the two reasons I sing along to every country song on the radio. I could write two or three novels, a screenplay, and a dozen anthologies of poetry on her. She was a beautiful enchantment on the diseased mind, a four-and-a-half year spell that whisked my common sense away.

Today, I lied there on my bed, numb to the world and bored of my very own scarlet letter, seared into the skin of my right forearm. Yet, I leave the etching, as a permanent reminder of how beautiful and haunting it was, to have been in love with a girl whose attraction to me was dimmer than those archaic streetlamps on County Rd 42.

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