by Madison Jones
photo by Alexa Brennan
Sometimes I like to think how it might have been
if we hadn’t been thirteen,
brash, abrasive know-it-alls,
my vision colored with the authoritative regality of
as we paced the hallway in loops, words spilling
like grape juice on your best linen tablecloth.
How what should’ve been pink was darkened to
as the sorrow crept in for you but
I slid across ice in my lavender skinny jeans, laughing
and didn’t think of you all weekend.
I’ve spent the last four years making up for that.
Purple curtains hung like ghosts
as I felt the chill come in
but you thawed. You left me far behind you.
And now every February 10th I become that same melancholy girl,
dipped in that same lilac nostalgia for the time
my bare feet trampled aster
and stars twinkled into being in a violet sky.