of young girls imagining what they might become, we play dress-up with costumes we intend to sew for each other one day and invent stories of how we might mesh within one another’s worlds. we rewatch that same movie, the one where they part ways, blindly hoping it might turn out different each time, basking in beginning laughter to drown out their valedictory phone call. we send poems and write songs with ambiguous pronouns— or the lack of any at all, stalling the moment the camera is turned towards us in secret knitted dresses, playing ourselves in the script no one else has touched. we talk about the time we both thought we’d grow up to be actresses— when we both played ghosts in a christmas carol spoof, warning the disillusioned scrooge of how things might become if they carry on the way they are. and, I’m afraid to speak, to reveal myself to you as a specter. and I’m afraid that this will become buried in a box of halloween-costume aspirations. and I’m afraid that we’ve never penned down the conclusion we sewed onto backwards seams and I’m afraid we’ll fall to disillusionment before we see our dreams take center stage. and what will you tell me when you call me next?
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