I remember your laughter was as sudden as the rain. Nothing was ever as funny as the one about you loving me and taking me on a road-trip across America. Nothing that happened was too real that it couldn’t have taken place in a dream instead. Almost everything did. You were alive and I was always dying. You were playing drinking games and forging checks and I was dying. You were making origami from newspaper clippings when I died. You couldn’t make anything out of me. You couldn’t make a paper airplane out of my ghost.
Remember that time you almost drowned? Remember when the lake rose high up above us and swallowed us whole? The moon floated down that night and when I looked up again you were an angel, you were pouring yourself a glass of wine. I didn’t drink. I acted like this was all a movie. I acted and read the script wrong and changed your name to Alexander. You wanted something more unique, I just wanted you to be dependable. The earth stopped spinning that night and that’s when I realized you weren’t even looking at me and her name was prettier than mine. You poured her a glass of wine and the music faded. You still took her hand and danced the waltz and I lost the color red. You danced the waltz with her and I couldn’t climb the mountain. You danced with her and the only thing left of me was a disposal camera with zero room left for pictures.