[dreamnotfound] forever yours, George

one

august 2, 2009.

do you remember how we met?

it was a warm sunday afternoon, the sun hugging my cotton shirt to my shoulders. sweat collected at the back of my neck. i remember vividly that you wore a green shirt. it had a faded Mountain Dew logo on it, worn down by age and time.

we were 13. both of us. you were already so tall, i thought you were at least 16.

the first time we met, we didn't even speak. we didn't interact with anything but our eyes, and maybe that was enough. maybe that's all i needed to have to know that i would see you again.

it was a beautifully hot sunday. my mom had made me tag along to the Walmart downtown for some stuff for dinner, and even let me get my own mini bag of m&m's for getting straight As on my most recent report card.

and then i saw you. and my world was glass hit with a dart, shattered into tiny mirror shards that glistened in the sky before crashing down in a chorus of twinkling sound and scratches.

i knew it was a little dramatic at the time to think of you making me that way. you were just some boy, wearing a shirt with a soda brand, with tousled hair and a brilliant splash of dark freckles. you weren't anything special.

but you looked at me. and i looked back.

and when your green eyes tugged at my brain and unraveled my spine and ran along my ribs like a staircase, i knew i would see you again.

did you feel that way? i never thought to ask. maybe you did.

2009. i was 13. wow, that's young. i forget most of the shit that happened that year, except for you, of course.

i do remember one day earlier that summer.

i was sat on the dusty curb on the slope of my street, at the end of my driveway, eating a sticky popsicle that dripped into my hands and in between my fingers steadily.

but i did not care. i liked the sweetness, and how it soaked between my skin and onto my clothes. i liked how sticky and gross i felt.

that's how i felt looking at you the first time we met, Clay.

you're my summer popsicle. sticky and sweet and dripping. but i did not care that you made me messy and sugared.

later that year, we would meet again. we would see each other, but boundaries would go untouched and words would still be left unsaid. we were children. we were scared and young and stupid.

i don't think
that we are children
anymore.
we've changed
shifted like sand in an hourglass
sinking over time.

anyways, my thoughts are always about you. theyre always knotted and sticky and poetically tragic. this seems too dragged out and random. do you think so, Clay? am i still young and stupid?

you don't care. that's okay.

i wouldn't care, either.

forever yours,
George