What's the earliest you can remember?

Do you smell the sour morning breath of your classmates back in elementary school as they shared an elaborate scheme to send a left-handed letter to their crush?

Do you remember whole films in your head as you fall asleep, twisting and turning on a pillow whose corner you rubbed against your eyelid back when you were old enough to acknowledge that fairies existed?

How about that squeaky toy wagon, screeching away with red wheels and blue edges, your Sesame Street cubes with bite marks resting in a pyramid on top?

Do you remember that Jacob's ladder, how it fascinated you as the colored blocks went form left to right, held up by lace?

I remember it all.

I remember the soccer team's screams as they yanked each other's shirts; I would hang upside down from a red-and-blue metal jungle gym where I'd eat my ham-and-cheese sandwiches, my sweet juice boxes. Berries were my favorite flavors. Mango the least favorite. It tasted bitter more often than not.

I remember every memory, nearly every word, or the flavor they held on the tip of my tongue.

I remember the laughter, the tears, every single thought held tight in the back of my throat;

every nightmare, every dream, every piece of clothing that got torn as I fell while running, on a skateboard, or the 16 miles I rode on a bicycle as the sharp pedal got caught up on my jeans.

Remembering is a blessing. Remembering is a curse.

Because you remember every loving, affectionate moment that made you feel

like you could soar high up in the air, untouched by the lightning in any storm,

and every single moment of doubt and slash of hurt, every cruel concept you've said,

every single goddamn frustration that roams freely across the streets of your head.

You remember every nook and cranny of every childhood homes, every apartment,

every step from every staircase you roamed.

And when people tell you, "Nah, that didn't happen, you're remembering it wrong,"

you feel the growing, aching frustration because

they don't get your brain the way that you do.

They do not get how you remember those exact moments:

the phone call you never picked up,

the hug from every person you've ever loved,

the way their skin smelled and the way their eyes glowed.

You remember everything.

So how dare they

say you

do

not?

Back in the days when I slept

with an 80 proof bottle on the left side of my bed,

the world was blurry, uncertain, with strange emotions

I barely knew what to do with.

I saw him tearing up over a ghost I dreamt about,

I saw her tearing up as I held her face between my hands,

so I helped them, between clean shot after shot,

they never knew about from how well-hid it all was,

as I snuck in the bathroom and punched all of its walls

over and over,

and over again,

until my knuckles were bruised,

the hidden bottle was gone,

and my spirit was torn

with the memories

of all those nights

I completely

forgot.

My dear Mr. M, do you really not see

this jesting dread below your chin,

or the noxious smoke as it settles

right between your willing lips?

They both spiral and comfort

your lungs and your mind,

the full extent I know not of--

I rely on 80 proof remedies

to get me through the night.

My dear Mr. M, will you please try to see

that where I'm lacking in rhymes

I can make up for with sincerity:

as the creases of your hands run along black and white keys,

and the sounds flooding out are those

of incomplete melancholy.

You must know those are the fingertips

I want on my face as you speak,

and I would gift-wrap my thoughts so

they're part of the air that you breathe.

I'd tie a lasso around the moon,

find you stardust so bright it's blinding,

if it gave you enough light to appease

all the ghosts that you are hiding.

And I'm afraid I must remind you,

since our clock won't cease its chiming:

in order to fully go on living

you'll need to accept

that we are dying.

So, my dear Mr. M, I hope you'll now see,

at long last, as we drift off to sleep,

how my affection does not rely

on your smoke-ridden misery,

but instead trusts the

multi-faceted

heartbeats

of your

company.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone else." Charlie passed the flask to me, her breath smelling of the unmistakable potpourri combination of gin and lime.

"Why in God's name would I want to do that?" I took a generous swig from the flask, staring directly at the branches stretched above us. Charlie punched my arm gently enough to not make me press charges, but hard enough to potentially leave a bruise.

"Because you're my friend, and friends tell each other stuff." she pressed on.

"Unless we are on social media, our friendship doesn't count."

Charlie propped herself up on her elbow, inching her head closer to mine. Her other hand poked at my chest and my ribs. I held on to it, trapping her fingers between my hands.

"Alright, I'm ticklish." I gave in.

"You rat, that doesn't count! I could've easily guessed that about you." she tried to pull her hand away, but I simply would not let her. I continued to grasp her hand, pressing it against my chest.

I look back on that moment often. Why did I do that?

Why did I hold on to her freckled knuckles?

Was it the gin? Or was it that in the few months we had known each other,

I had grown to feel like I could really tell her anything, but still felt

terrified of that idea at the same time?

At that moment I was not scared. I felt bold.

I felt like I was the closest version of myself-- of the very person I aspired to be.

I also felt mildly tipsy.

I could tell she was blushing in the dark. But Charlie was never one to walk away from what she perceived as a challenge. At the end of the day, let's face it, the only reason why I kept holding on to her hand at that moment was because she let me. She did not lean in closer. She stayed exactly where she was at, flexing her fingers beneath mine.

"When I was younger, I wanted so badly for magic to be real." I let go of her hand, and sat up, my arms wrapped around my knees. "I wanted to be in a Neil Gaiman story. You know, the sort where you could go through a small door or knock on a wall and you'd end up in this whole new universe. You'd see all sorts of crazy shit, and everything would be this...greater than life experience. There'd be meaning in things that actually were supposed to have meaning, even if they were nonsense. In here, nothing really has meaning. Nothing important has meaning. We look at most situations and think, 'Oh shit, well that's complicated,' but it actually isn't. Most things are easier than we think, but we make them complicated ourselves because there aren't any monsters or demonic angels or Other Mothers with buttoned eyes. We are our own goddamned worst enemies, and we are masochistic bastards who think this is better than just..." I faltered, realizing I was ranting.

"Than just knocking on a wall and see it open up in front of you." Charlie finished for me. She sat up as well, her shoulder bumping against my own as she leaned her head against her knees to look at me.

"Then I realized. Ghosts wouldn't choose to talk to me. Fairies wouldn't pop up from plants. Doors would just lead to other rooms in the house. Walls wouldn't open up."

"There is magic around you, though. Even if it isn't in the way you expected." she whispered.

I turned to look at her. The wide space between her eyebrows. Her almost comical angular nose. The red sweatshirt I let her borrow as we climbed out the window and onto the rooftop, because she hated the cold. I shook my head slightly.

She nudged closer against me.

"Ever thought that maybe people and the connections we make are the real magic in this world, Pete? Look, hear me out. It isn't the same as the Canterville Ghost walking around, or with fairies popping up left and right, or with these giant quests to show your own bravery. Maybe it's all in doing what's right just because it's the right thing, instead of focusing on all those complications you mentioned we get stuck in. That is magic. It isn't loud or show-off-y, but it is real, and it is there. And, hey. Can I tell you something I've never told anyone?"

There was an inch between us.

"Please do."

"You are proof magic exists in the world."

Her eyes glinted. Her thin lips widened into the most Charlie-esque of smiles;

the sort that made me believe there was merit in what she was saying,

but it wasn't applying to me. Not really.

It applied to her.

I had a choice. Did I have a choice? Was she giving me a choice?

I could close the space between us.

Or I could stay where I was at,

just looking into her eyes for as long as she allowed me to,

holding on to this moment exactly as it was.

"Just hold that happy thought, Peter, and it will lift you into the air."

It was the oil slick of colors,

the bubbles floating in the air,

the way I felt a rustling deep in my stomach

while sitting next to her.

It was the air, so sharp and cold,

it was the stars, so bright they burned

into constellations marked deep in my mind

while sitting next to her.

Her words echoed on the rooftop,

both inconsequential and profound,

a reminder of how our wish for immortality

is really nowhere to be found.

So I'll sit here, next to her,

with all these bubbles in the air,

and I'll think of how we will be, and how we are,

Someplace, Somehow, Somewhere.

I have this reoccurring fantasy, you know,

the sort where you step out into the balcony,

or silently glide past your front door,

and into the great, wide, dark unknown.

The air would be fueled with the dampness of rain and adventure.

The ground would feel real and raw against my bare feet that

before then,

only knew what it was like to explore cool,

smooth concrete.

The gravel would make a dent against my soles,

the leaves would rustle above me in celebration

of my independent choice,

and the stars would twinkle in laughter at the idea

that I hoped they'd protect me.

I would not go far, in this fantasy.

I would only explore places where I'd been to while awake.

Simply gliding through the night, visiting my waking memories

as an insomniac ghost.

It all goes back to some years ago, perhaps two, perhaps twelve,

where I left my backpack behind giant plant pots and planned my way

towards the park right across the street.

You see, my family and I used to live right next to the school,

right in front of this park,

and I'd ponder and dream of the day where I could

change my uniform skirt into jeans,

place my backpack behind the scenes,

and run as fast as I could across this street...

so that hidden in this park, somewhere, I could be.

My therapist now says these dreams of running off

are pretty self-reflecting, pretty telling, of a craving I've felt since

one,

maybe two,

maybe twelve or twenty-four

years ago.