“Today in science class i learned every cell in our entire body is replaced every seven years
;how lovely it is to know one day i will have a body you will have never touched” [l.m.]
I was an entity of sunscreen skin and chlorine-green hair. That’s how I remember that summer. My feet were wheels under fraying tennis shoe laces and mismatched socks.
You were obsidian. I felt a singe whenever your hand happened upon mine. I should have known, then, that you were too solid for my months of diving. Your hair was gelled and ten thousand shades of wicked.
I miss it, though I know now two years couldn’t change two hearts. I am different than you are. I am emerald grass and yellow sunshine, and you are fire-red and black smoke. These aren’t bad things. We need a cleansing fire as much as we need sprout of grass to grow between the embers. They go together, but we don’t. We are not as simple as the earth.
We are complicated and dividing cells. Don’t you see? We always split up – that’s how it happens for us. In seven years, I will forget the way your anger blasted through your eyes. You’ll forget the way my words washed over you like heavy waves. Forgetting is rejuvenating.
I need you separately from me, but I need you. You’re my best friend.