that’s fine, I guess— I’ve had my share of magic. I’ve picked wild violets from the nooks and crannies of my backyard creek and barefoot-chased shooting stars to the end of my cul-de-sac universe. I’ve been nine years young with a heartbeat racing faster than the time slipping through my fingers. How my cup overflows. Dear Diary or whoever happens to be reading this (IF SO, BEGONE!), I’d write years later, drunk on new feelings in a giddy July. I’m in love, I’m so in love, too far in love I could die! I documented, ending the entry by practicing my first name paired with his, marrying us on paper, the loops in my cursive stretching for eternity. It’s funny, when you’re old enough to drive but still can’t cast your own ballot, how you swear on everything you are (chipped nail polish, horrible homemade haircuts, punk music through a bedroom door slammed shut) that you were the first to invent love. I believed it, too. That’s the cute part. I remember the day I stopped. But if the good old days are gone for good, it’s alright with me. I’ve dizzy-danced in grocery store aisles. I’ve touched my lips to the wrong ones. And I might not be the inventor of love (or really anything at all), but damn
do I get close with you.