terryberger

3 years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed.
She opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three.
Inevitably, she asks, and you tell her.
You say: I dated her a while back.
You don’t say: Sometimes, when I’m holding you, I imagine the smell of her perfume.
You say: She was younger than me.
You don’t say: The sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered.