Letter Two

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Dear Phoebe,

We made our friendship bracelets a
year later when we were in first grade. On the play date our parents had grown accustomed to scheduling;
every Saturday at one.
We wove for hours, entwining mismatched hues of reds and blues.
The reds were me and the
blues were you.

Together.
Forever entangled we were after
that fateful day.
I was cuffed to you and you to I.
How precious we were at that
young age.
How starry-eyed.

I bet you still remember the
promise we made
under the heavens and it's
luminous eyes. I bet you still remember the feel of your lips on mine (sun kissed) as young
children we played.
Why was it that young children made promises to wed one another?
When we were too young to understand the reasons why?
What a delicate, childish, haze we were stuck in.
What foolish fawning we allowed ourselves to become trapped within.

Bee, I think that is the day you stopped seeing me for me.
I think that is the day you started seeing possibilities.
Possibilities that didn't involve
the real me.

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