Snippet from a moonscalded night

And I thought to myself: “We're the same,” but I said to her, “You’re fucked up, I think,” and she laughed a bit and said "I know.”

She was barefoot and balanced on the curb, I with sandals, trailing behind her, listening quietly.

I think I miss her, no -

I think I loved that photo of her captured at midnight;

I think maybe I fell in love with the sound of my own voice reflected at me, darkened three shades.