efflorescence

back then we were submerged in it —

six periods,

four-minute passing bells,

a cafeteria loud enough to double as an ocean,

every table its own reef.

we didn’t choose our friends so much as get chosen by proximity —

the same locker bank,

the same bus route.

after the last bell: someone’s basement,

someone’s driveway,

a party we weren’t invited to and went to anyway.

it was constant.

it was every day.

we didn’t have a word yet for how much of it there was.

now it’s reduced to a blue thumbs-up at midnight,

a happy birthday a website reminded me to write,

a reunion once a decade where a sticker on my chest tells you

who I used to be in case you forgot.

in case I did.

the whole ocean,

gone to vapor.

what’s left could fit in a coffee mug.

and then — this.

a booth at a place with laminated menus neither of us opens,

because we already know.

you tell the same story wrong on purpose

because you know I’ll correct you.

the waitress refills the coffee twice

before either of us notices she was ever there.

two hours go missing the way they used to —

unaccounted for,

nobody checking a phone,

nobody pretending about anything.

and it isn’t a one-time thing anymore.

it’s every few months, when we get the chance

penciled in next to doctor visits and oil changes

except this is the appointment I don’t reschedule.

outside,

in the parking lot,

you hug me like it’s 1987,

and I let you,

and for a second

I forget which decade is holding which one of us up.