It’s raining this morning,
Flannel sheets remind me of being 13 and in love,
Although at 13, I was not in love,
And had never slept between flannel sheets.
How can something this morning remind me of a nonexistent memory?
I remember you and I at 13,
Girlish, but not girlish,
Sleepovers and kisses,
My mother making us buckwheat pancakes on Sunday morning,
The snow piling up in the alley behind my house,
White iridescent flakes falling under the yellow streetlight,
“Baby Love” playing on my transistor radio,
As our legs tangled together under the wool blanket,
Your hands smoothing my skin,
We were so soft and young.
This never happened,
We lived in different countries,
You’re 10 years younger,
You hate Motown.
And this morning, it’s raining,
You’re 3,000 miles away,
I’m drinking tea,
Willing this memory of you,
Into existence.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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