Old Friendship 3.
I remember the feeling of my skin fixed on yours, welded into place with a bond of your sweat and my sweat. Heat had nowhere to go so it flooded upwards into our mouths. Every time I moved I slipped against you. Every time I tried to gasp fresh air I tasted salt.
Whenever I can feel my past with you creeping up on the nape of my neck I revert to stories I make up that are somewhat fantasy and somewhat memory. I watch them in my head like deja vu or dreams you struggle to complete: We run away together on a Greyhound bus to Colorado. We rent an apartment and live off canned food and cigarettes and each other. We never parted. We never even so much as got angry with each other. In these stories, you are not you and instead I fold myself into, push myself against, touch the collar of a strange, necessarily faceless boy with an echo of your longish hair and a dull replica of your bright green eyes.
