I remember those months. I remember each one of us, caught up in some sort of first kiss. Everyone was so naive then, reading Perks of Being a Wallflower, eating Italian food in colorful skirts and collared shirts, sitting on furniture that is a few years older now. Oh, standing near those big windows that tapped with the spring rain (it always rained), the music behind me, and the laughter - our laughter - it was what that same book might have called "infinite." It is surprising how few photographs of that time I have. I could probably count them on one hand. It's enough to have a thousand pictures in my memory of the Converse sneakers, the dining room table, all of us a bit smaller and baby-faced.
We're so boring now, pretending to graduate from college and playing like we're old and wise enough to get married. Street names have changed for a lot of us, our pianos sit against different walls. I don't smell that smell which I found so much comfort in. The Italian restaurant is closed.
But I find that I'm still that girl in those big old windows, who now recollects and replays the voices and laughs of each of you in your own far places. Are you still laughing there? Is it all still real?
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