My tongue drips with synthetic wisdom as I try to impress you with my cerebral musings. You were never supposed to be the one. You were the quiet one, the strange one, the dangerous one. But if that’s really the case, tell me why the light makes your pupils look like oceans that I could drown in. Tell me why the syllables flow effortlessly as I stand here in front of you. Your jeans don’t match your sarcasm.

I want to forget you. I want to erase you as I would a misspelled word or a poorly worded sentence. But even in my desperate attempts for escape, you are more foreign and more alive than anyone else in this town. I like that. I like that more than a new pair of sweatpants, more than the sleeping pills I take to fall asleep at noon, more than tongues with razor blades sewn on.

We stand together and apart. You are my mismatched socks, my chipped nail polish, my dead ends. You are an average imperfection. I carry you with me through the rain I love and the sunshine I wish would go away. But nonetheless, you are my grown-up childhood. So as I ooze into your caved-in chest, remember that I want nothing more than to leave you behind, to see you pass as the seasons do.

Remember me even when I forget you. Maybe this doesn’t matter. Maybe this never happened. If I ever come back, could you do me a favor? Could you lace me up like an old pair of shoes and wear me around for a little bit? Could you drape me over your bed like a blanket you’ve had since you were and infant? Could you create some synthetic wisdom for me this time?