something about pulling my broken foot behind me in the water
something about the way he said my name, with a hard 'k'
something about the fireworks
and maybe I was exceptionally sad that day
but he made me laugh loud
louder than I had in awhile
louder than my footsteps as of late
louder than your anger
and you said I broke my promises
and I said you couldn't make any to begin with
and you said you wouldn't have done that to me
and I said you did plenty of other things don't you worry
and you cried and I cried
and my sternum shook holding in my nausea
and you were prone to coughing fits
and the chicken grew cold
and the air smelled of stale crickets
and it all feels like a story,
except for that it's real.
and I know all stories are grounded in reality,
but somehow ours seems more real,
tangible and malleable and
omnipresent, our story is
etched into every wall I walk by
etched into this dough I knead under my palms
etched under my eyelids by your fingernails.
and our story has no ending
just a thin line in the sand
that thickens and thins
over time over tides under my toes.
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