From Anonymous in Oregon.
A million stupid songs played on the radio all that year, the year after Desert Storm. On the rock station and the oldies station and that cable channel in those days when it still played videos. I don’t know why I liked you so much and let you write poems on my arms and color in my toenails with black sharpie.
There were times when I looked into your eyes, twin green free-falls into the depths of high school, and saw in the periphery a cloud of moths and butterflies where normal girls have hair. This was how you got me to sneak out of sixth period so we could walk slow, close circles around each other in the hall.