She appears, as a vision from those New Jerseyan days when my world was seventeen and in the font of Courier New. Beautiful, fragmented, and sweeter than the lemonade we used to sip on the edge of the waters. She disappeared long ago, but today I visit her in a self-induced hallucination so that maybe I can recall what it was like—to be so in love with an idea that I almost drowned in my own pool of daydreams.

That shred of time jars me—my sky was torn in half, like the crumpled letter you wrote on your last day. And for every midnight broken heart and unanswered text since then, I’d recite your old number out loud only to remember—you live solely in memories now.


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