she wasn’t pretty when she was younger, not at all really. she was too tall. hair too dark. skin too pale. her veins bled through her white skin like blue-green sharpie on thin paper. 

she was quiet, very alone. very sad. very smart. she was much smarter than me. she was frustrated by not being able to control everything. unable to control the tides she turned her back on the ocean. 

she grew up too fast, still alone. very sad. prettier, much prettier. white skin had turned gold. she was still quiet, still smart.

smarter than me. she wore glasses with white frames and jeans with too many holes. she was thin, thinner than me, like a perfect rail that disappeared when she turned sideways

I wanted so much to be her.

she wanted far to much to be with him. 

the both of us managed to sit still on the edge of the boardwalk. she wanted to jump, but promised not to. 

at the time I thought she said, Can I jump? because she wanted to swim.

the water was cold, so was the air. 

she didn’t just want to go swimming, but I didn’t think of it that way when I was younger. 

I wanted to be like her.

she just wanted to be with him, and she told me that a lot. 

we would sit in the back seat telling the same story every morning. every afternoon.

the same story, every day for years in a row, grade after grade.

and one day she didn’t come.

she wasn’t at her stop.

I didn’t see her after that morning, rumor had it she moved away. 

gone so quickly, I sat alone. eventually I put her to the back of my mind, continued growing up too fast, just like her, and nearly forgot until just the other day. I’ve never heard from her, its been years. she wouldn’t remember me now. wouldn’t recognize me.

I can’t believe I thought she wanted to go swimming