I think I used to know you. I think we used to reach deep for the prettiest pebbles at the bottom of the stream, wash them clean, take them home to our mothers. I cut my heels on the screen door one summer, banged it too fast behind me when I saw you coming. I stopped living in the real world, started living in joint adventures we created. We kept our secrets on scraps of paper in holes in trees in the woods. We kept promises with string around our pinkies. I still remember everything, all the things I was supposed to tell you when I got home. I’ve forgotten the ten numbers that used to make me feel safe. I buried you in static and fun times with other people. Escapism, more like escaping missing you. Missing the feeling, that feeling, mossy hands, bare ***** feet, tree-branch kids, kids who split one universe into ten thousand. Sometimes I think I can still control time but never the way we used to. If I could I’d be back with you, buttercups lighting up my chin even on the cloudy days. Pressing flowers against our skin, poppies and forget-me-nots. Ivy as a bookmarker, saving the moments I want to remember. Sunroom sunlight sunshine, all those bright and beautiful things. You were one of them. I’ve found others; I’ve been places where the sun never stops burning the earth. Nothing was ever like that in our universes; the only things that burned were skinned knees, picking the gravel out felt like coming home to shut doors and silence. I think about you when I see dandelions and mud and rainbows reflected in puddles. I wish I could make this place a home, I wish I could write down more secrets on notebook paper, find more holes my hands can reach, stash parts of myself in this universe, make peace with all the ones I’ll never return to. Daisy chain, tree-bark skin, doe-eyed girl. I’m sorry for all the ways things aren’t the same anymore.