Warning: fragile

They used to be friends, back when she still had a smile and he still had a life.

It didn't matter that his shirt was always ripped, or that there were purple shadows around his left eye.
She'd tie a little white ribbon around his wrist, and he'd feel better, even though he hated the colour
representing as it did that which did not exist

They'd go traipsing through the fields, cuttigrass and all, and by the end of the day their oh-so-pale ankles would be raw. Afterwards, her mother would give them cookies and milk.
"Why do you have cuts all over your legs?" her mother would say.
"Because scissors beats paper," she'd reply, and he'd nod but never mention that
rock beats paper too

After the funeral, she and her mother moved away. But the new location didn't help, and she still dreamed about him every night, even though time ate at her memories until she could no longer recall the sound of his voice or the colour of his eyes.
"We used to be friends," she'd say to him in her dream. His silhouette would nod.
And she'd wake up with a little white ribbon in her hand
and paper in her pocket
thank you for forever
but i think this is the end




writing exercise: we used to be friends
I'm missing someone a bit. but mainly i think the english internal we did has got to me. ahem. l0lz