You died in 1996.
It bothers me that I can't remember.
I can't remember his name
came to class crying
but 22 years later I remember his face twisted worn out done wet
and I was angry at you for making him hurt.
I am still angry.
I cried, too.
I hid my face because we weren't close, you and I. I didn't have the right to grieve.
But I could be angry.
Now I wonder who you would have been in a different time.
Would you have taken more with you?
You loved your grandmother.
You played the guitar.
Would you have a YouTube channel?
You asked me out once.
I thought you were kidding
that it was a dare or a joke
Maybe it was.
You dyed your hair.
You had blue eyes, dark hair, fifteen years.
"You don't shave your legs," you said to me in art class, and I was angry.