Dear John,

I keep trying to make the turn and I’m going too fast

I remember that when you go too sharply round the corner

your heart’s stops in the street

I take the turn real wide and never making it through

I am still three doors down and just across the table talking to you


You are not anyone yet

Just compilations of hats and scarves, hopes and dreams

Unheld hands, and unwritten cards

You are scrawled on a notebook I left at my middle school

You are right behind the moon at the top of the sky where I looked by myself and no one was looking

At me.

You are only a word made of three letters.

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