You have to help me remember. Because I'm starting to forget what things were like. Ten years ago I was laying in the grass, facing the lake, pushing my hair out of my eyes. You'd been racing your black car in the middle of the night before and I couldn't get you out of my head. I thought about you all morning. Bugs landed in my hair and the smell of the lake and grass filled my nose and all I could think about was you, curly hair and freckles and your father's leather jacket. "I'm nothing like him," you clarified one day when you told me about the jacket. As if I'd known him and seen some resemblance. You looked at me like you were expecting me to shoot you with a rifle, and I tried to give you a look back that said: I don't hunt. And I don't have a taste for blood. Which, funny, everyone is out for blood these days. I couldn't imagine doing my romanticizing (so easy a decade ago) now. You have to help me remember: was it really easier back then, simpler? Like, did we have more happy days? Did we tell each other the truth? I remember all the pretty things, the soft memories, including the disgusting horrible things we made pretty in our heads (car crash on I-9X, dead deer, police lights). (Stupid, I know.) The future didn't look bleak back then, I can tell you that. And I wasn't afraid of writing to you, as I am now. Was I really that certain my life would turn out all right? Why was that?
origamiaround
dailybridgerton
discoholicmusic
jbbartram-illu
jacobvanloon
