I have always kept my limbs in check for you.
Each month I stamp them with the patch of a picture I found on facebook of the girl that you once sat on.
The girl who was clearly widdling down the pretty personality she scripted out in highschool, shaping her laugh into something that may fit in better to the new-found hip of the Ivy Leagues.
It looked to me like indian feathers and a paper-bag oragami hat cropped into a polaroid frame and skinny jeans.
Whatever,
you like it, and I obviously appreciate the kodak chrome lines enough to envy them.
My legs, fractionally, don't add up against the rest of me. Not like hers.
I never understood this love you had with the small and sweet.
When we drove through magnetic fields up to whyoming, you looked so comfortable against the window that I imagined you loving a girl who looked like the landscape that was pressing against your face.
Simple and beautiful with a long nose, like your mother.
I imagined a girl with a big mind, and a broad laugh, and a bad back.
And glass beads
And a skirt that looked as if the air beneath it had potential for something more than what we could offer up in highschool.
Yesterday you pulled out a picture of another.
She seemed like something new, and her face held an air of something that I think could match your mothers.
and your confederate boots would look good on her.
and I liked your smile when i said that she was hot.
