We knew each other to our fingertips.
No, that’s not right.
We only knew each other in our fingertips,
and that was nothing at all,
and for a while that was okay.
We could have been a love story,
a fairy tale, an indie film about high school and
selective insanity featuring a boy of angel parts and a girl made of dreaming.
We could have been all the best things:
bracelets sliding down arms while shots slid down throats,
laughter and crashing music in dark and flashing rooms,
kisses that started hesitant but didn’t stay that way.
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