Remember.

We were six,
We used to sit on top of the hill, grass tickling at our ankles, and lace ourselves crowns of clovers and thistles. We’d be the fucking kings of the world together and climb trees and eat knotty little hard pretzels with lemonade.

We were nine,
We would play with our little green soldier figurines that we bought for three pennies a piece at your crazy neighbor’s yard sale. We’d kill them all off one by one and smile while making machine-gun noises because finally we had control over someone other than ourselves.

We were eleven,
We were always throwing friendly punches at each other just so we could compare bruises the next day. We’d have contests to see who could scale the chain link fence the fastest, and whoever won would end up with aching arms and a big grin and that wonderful satisfaction of victory.

We were thirteen,
We looked at pictures of hot girls together, and you would say how it made your stomach feel all funny. And I would agree, my stomach slightly uneasy as well, but I hadn’t known that feeling ‘funny’ wasn’t the same as feeling ‘completely uninterested’.

We were fifteen,
We would hang out after school together and smoke cigarettes we stole from your brother. You only did it because you thought it looked cool and somehow tasted alright. I only did it because I always thought your parted lips looked pretty with wisps of smoke sifting between them.

We were sixteen,
We moved into our own loft because our parents were tired of our ‘boyish ways’. Sometimes I’d wake up to the sight of you shoving money into the palm of another pretty whore and shooing her out the door. It made me strangely sad when that happened, and I never really understood why.

We were seventeen,
We liked to fuck around on the two old Gibson guitars you’d filched from your dad (who, admit it, was totally stuck in the ‘80s). I would sort-of-kind-of-not-really sing pathetic little melodies and watch as you ran your quick fingers across the neck of your guitar, and it would sort of urge spurring heat through my body because I’d secretly pretend I was the Gibson you were holding.

We were eighteen,
We would go up to the top of that hill from our childhood and lie back on dead grass and peer up at the midnight sky, silver sequins sewn to navy velvet. We’d talk about everything and sometimes you’d say stuff that made my stomach feel ‘funny’, but when I told you, all you did was make this little choking laughing noise and tell me that we should get back home.

When we were still eighteen,
We would sit on our ratty reddish couch and talk, just talk about everything. Well, really, you’d done most of the talking, and I’d done most of the watching as your mouth formed raspy words. One time I had just stopped caring and kissed you in the dip of your collarbone, and it had only progressed from there. You hadn’t protested, not even a bit, until after we’d finished everything.

Whenever I look at the crescent-shaped scar that you unintentionally carved onto my hip with your fingernails,
Or the plastic green army men in the toy store window,
Or the chain link fence outside the burnt-down gas station,
I can’t help but miss you a whole fucking lot.