February 10th

by Madison Jones

photo by Alexa Brennan

Sometimes I like to think how it might have been

different;

if we hadn’t been thirteen,

brash, abrasive know-it-alls,

my vision colored with the authoritative regality of

purple

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

purple

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.

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