Do you blow kisses over your shoulder, behind you, in the car, when you are leaving the State?
And yes, I capitalized that for a reason.
Do you blow them and think of me?
Sometimes I think about how much other people are, or are not, thinking of me. And that's kind of sad. But if I start thinking about how sad that is, then I fall down the Wheaties box rabbit hole and we've talked about that before.
I wish you would look at me differently, the way I wanted to be looked at the night we were at Deering Bay, on the dock, with the heat lightning.
I wish you would take me by the hand, the way you did that day in May, when our palms were sweating but we didn't let go of each other.
I wish you would blow kisses on the edge of the panhandle when I wasn't with you.
And I wish you would tell everyone about how we knew each other when we were little ones at the turn of this century.
I wish you would. Could. This time.
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