Our First Day (Everyday Inspiration, Day 14)

I don’t remember the day,
only the night.
And even that isn’t clear,
just bits and pieces.

It was August twenty seventh,
two thousand eight.
My roommate was on the phone,
yours was sleeping with lights off.

You were barefoot,
wearing t-shirt and jeans
and fixing your guitar,
red electric, I think.

I had on cheap blue flip-flops
and Hello Kitty pajamas.
Was reading Catch-22
and talking of prostitution and warm bodies.

It was a Wednesday
and tomorrow my mom’s birthday.
There was Kyle
and he was reading Twilight.

I was eighteen,
you were sixteen.
I didn’t believe you,
think I asked to see your ID.

I had trouble pronouncing
your last name,
think you said most people do.
I told you about all my double letters.

There was Good Day Sunshine
and I thought you wrote it.
You looked at me funny,
you thought I was joking.

Kyle went to bed;
You and I stayed up.
It was my idea to go to the pool.
You thought to bring a towel, I didn’t.

I don’t remember everything,
like if we talked about stuff that mattered
or just stuff that didn’t.
Just remember the world spun.

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