[I don't think this one is quite done yet; still percolating]
A passing glance at the calendar
leads to hours spent flipping photos
examining the evidence of your existence
Your birthday--one of the few things I recall--
along with the smell of your cigarettes, how
you slapped my ass that one day, and your
prickly, adolescent chin.
I fell for the softness of your skin,
gentle like the lake water, Diego Luna,
Pacey, my Trip Fontaine, all the boys
of an over-active imagination.
Our time ran out like a rainstorm: quick, fierce
and uncontrollable on my part, lying in wait with no
sun to pass through.
It rains today. The same kind of rain,
thick, crisp like toast, and I crave an Export A,
Jay's hotbox BMW, and the sour smell of your ball cap,
but the cold shoulder of my youth has passed.
Girl with titanium hip will rock. Girl with titanium hip will write. Girl with titanium hip will read. Girl with titanium hip will battle crazy-ass disease called Wegener's Granulomatosis. Now stuff that in your spelling bee!
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