2013-10-27 - 6:31 p.m.

on finding the email address of my girlfriend from high school

dumpster-diving, we found a box of phonograph records and old sheet music, a musty shuffle of friable paper and art deco fonts. "oh gee, georgie," "no no, nora," "row, row, rosie." i picked the shards of broken glass from your knee, and your hair smelled like green tea and jasmine.

we checked out a record player from the county library, along with a super-eight projector and a few old movies on film. the afternoon faded in your upstairs room; later, in your mother's bedroom, you lip-synced to eddie cantor while skipping in front of the screen. i laughed so hard because my heart hurt - swimming up through the two-strip technicolor, you were like a ghost already.

we kept in touch for a while, writing postcards and letters, swapping zines and mixtapes through the mail. i remember you in the whir and dusty hum of the projector fan, the sound a record makes in the run-out groove. to drag you forward in time would be an act of violence, maybe, or maybe i am just a coward now.

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