The Laughter Lines
Laughter; it was the last thing I heard when I saw your shadowed face on Collins Avenue walking away from Mimi's Cafe. But you were never with me. No, you were five year's before Mimi's. You were the prelude to who introduced me to Mimi's by bringing me a few lychees in a frozen yogurt cup when he heard I was dairy-intolerant. You were technicolor glow sticks, sleepless nights with blistered feet at the Fontainebleau, rum and vodka kisses in an Uber back to campus. You were so many firsts, and my least favorite last. Laughter; it was literally the last thing I heard that night as we fought in my apartment in the Design District, the furthest thing from us as I bolted the door behind your exit. Now I can only pray that you have laughter lines on your face that reflect technicolor glow sticks, sleepless nights full of inside jokes and memories of the awful, yet sweet, vodka and rum kisses on the way back to campus. And this, my dear, is almost everything I wish I'd said to you so we would have become more than just laughter lines left as remnants on faces long gone.