anachronism By Emberlynn Pendergraft
I catch myself using your idiosyncrasies. Meaningless gestures that make me stop mid-conversation to think about you. I wonder if you do the same. If you ever found yourself again after we stopped sharing a personality. It didn’t take me long, but— You used to have this obsession with the bruises that scatter across my shins. The scar on my knee from the summer I learned to skateboard. You always wanted to look as beat to shit as I did, and I hope you do too, but— We were just kids. Stupid nicknames and streetlights and scraped knees and sleepovers. I hear you’re doing well, and I hope that’s true, but— I still write about you. I still write about you. I still write about you.
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