I had an anxiety attack on the corner of Bridgeton Ave.
I was waiting outside for her to come back with the lemonade but she never did.
I guess that was her way of saying goodbye.
I wish goodbyes always meant see you soon, because it’s been a year and three months and I still miss her.
We had this thing where every morning all summer, we would bike to the lake and skip rocks, and for every rock that didn’t skip before it sunk we would tell a confession.
I wish I had missed more often, then maybe I would have gotten the courage to tell her,
“I love you”.
I still pass her house on my bike when it pours, never on sunny days because the sun kissing my face would only remind me of when her lips kissed mine.
I would forget that she is gone, falling onto her doorstep like it was summer of two thousand fourteen and I was still waiting.
Some mornings I bike up to the lake to skip rocks, and every time I miss just so I can tell her all the things I never did.
Once I thought I saw her in a car that passed. I like to think that it was, but I have my doubts.
The only proof I have that her and I were ever real is the vivid memory I have of us was the night we saw fireworks together.
She placed her hand alongside my face and I swear the only fireworks I saw were in her eyes, but she told me she never believed in love.
As the words spilled from her lips, love was sitting right in front of me.
She was love and she never saw it
And I tell her that every time I visit her grave.
I had an anxiety attack on the corner of Bridgeton Ave.