Spring into Spring.

When my friend and I were seventeen we
jumped on trampolines
didn't care about our hair or how we would be seen

in public, spat out rap words
to songs we did not know.

Boarded buses with lucky numbers,
pretended we had important places to go

Confident teenage rappers.

Always running and running late.
With knee-high socks and turned up sleeves
(it's always summer when you refuse to freeze).

Our hair was long, our conversations longer.

I don't think I owned a hairbrush for two years after we met.

There were scrapbooks filled with funny things we thought we said,
and all the things we would never say out loud.
We recorded everything that happened to us. Whether we wanted it to happen or

We were the best and we were the worst.
If being an adolescent was difficult we didn't feel cursed.

It's spring time again now. But I don't feel very springy.
Maybe it's because I don't see you much
no one else asks me to dress up.

Or jump on a trampoline and take unblurred pictures.

So we sit in cars. Our separate cars
even when we're going the same places.
And time ourselves how long it takes to paint our unslept faces.

Oh, and I wear a watch now.
So I can tell you:

I have no time.
I'm so stressed.
What a joke.
I need more sleep


If you asked me to spring into spring again with you, I'd say



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