I remember camping one summer weekend and you told me
You had a photographic memory. I didn't believe you.
Two. Tyler, the number is two. Two fingers held up in dim light
With a smile fading somewhere in the mountains of Forks.
Camping without a fork or even an extra pair of underwear--
Two nights alone--
We laughed, we joked, we played games knowing
It wouldn't be this way forever:
"We" no longer, but you and I no longer close. Two peas unshelled.
You turned to punk rock, I was a floater.
That trip was one of the last times we spoke.
It's been two years since.
Too long since you slept over, sprawled on the floor. Too often
did I watch you stumble over your tongue, m-m-mouth in a wrinkle.
I'm in college now, a year to go. Did you ever leave, escape?
You were my first friend--my only friend for so long.
Would you be proud? Would you care?
You never cared what anyone thought of you or our friendship.
That's the sign of a true friend, and it's rare. I think of you
often. I wonder where you've gone. What are you doing now?
I remember you fondly, old friend.
I remember too well.
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