things are different now

It's a different world, now, from when I was piecing Lego pieces together to resemble ranches and pretending Polly Pocket actually gave a shit about the Ball that was coming into town the next day. I can't understand how "touch applications" work nor how a cellphone charger can just die on you. I'm probably behind on the times; I guess it happens to the best of us. Does it matter if technology doesn't affect what you're trying to accomplish? 

I'm sucking on a Fudgesicle, trying to remember the last time I had one in the bathtub with my sister. We used to pretend that we were hair stylists; we would take turns being the hair stylist. We would pretend that the bubbles meant something, that the bubbles meant we were being artsy and cutting-edge. We understood that hair was a form of expression, that a good cut could be the deciding factor between cool and hip. So I'm standing here, at a friend's new apartment in the hottest day of July, looking at a picture that she's nailing to the wall. And I'm sucking on a Fudgesicle. Is it straight, she asks, and she walks back to where I'm standing. It looks good to me but I tell her that it might be a little crooked. I really have no way of knowing, I tell her. I'm terrible with eye-balling things. She adjusts it a little to the left. It's still crooked, but I don't have the heart to tell her. It looks great, I say. She smiles. She rummages through a box. There's a little doll that I'd seen before. She puts it back into the box. I wonder when the sun is going to go back into hiding and when the night air will give us a break from the heat.

He's here again and I'm wondering if he'll tell me this time. 

There was a time when I wasn't wondering all the time. When I wasn't confused about what was going on with my life. When I was sure about something, anything. I don't remember when that was, but I'm sure it's there, somewhere. I'm sure it's buried in the box of memories that I keep under my bed; every time I move, I take out the box and rummage through, taking out notable pictures and placing them aside, next to my bare feet, face up so I can thumb through them again. I don't know why I choose the pictures that I do, and I'm not sure if there's ever a pattern to these kinds of things, but I do it anyway. 

He holds my head and tells me I'm his angel.

I think my knees knock up against the wooden floors when I'm not paying attention. When I'm not trying to hear my own heart beat, I think I can hear my joints hit the pavement. Hard.

How many times do I have to forget you?