BY JACKSON BOONSTRA

I fell in love with the books that she’d throw at me on rainy days when we were stuck inside.

As the pages flew past my head, I’d catch glimpses of authors who would open the world up to me one bruise at a time.

I had a dream where her kisses made me feel warm and my arms were wrapped around her in a monosalivic fashion that made both a beautiful ribbon that tied us together in a dead-bolted chain that was meant to keep us safe.

I often wondered how someone you share yourself with wears so little, yet conceals so much.

My mind races and tends to lap me thrice during such mental sprint.  I often wonder if I should try to catch up.

Like haphazard sewing thread factories, our ideas of love for one another are fabricated, woven into warm blankets where we can hide from monsters.

We’re still telling ghost stories under these coveted sheets but this time they’re real.

We share our insanities like flowers, sometimes it’s the wind that sweeps the pollen off its feet, other times it's the birds and the bees that do it.

I talk to more people weekly only to realize that we are in the same lifeboat, feeling stranded surrounded by a sea of others just wanting some pretty person to text us back or wishing Netflix had a cuddle buddy button.

We blame our feelings on personal biology or shared chemistry, but it still doesn't destroy any physical tension.

The modern day equivalent to Gatsby gazing at the adjacent light on Daisy’s pier across Easter Bay is us staring at the green active dot next to our crush on Facebook and not doing anything about it.

 

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