Because each word contains a world, we should use them and give meaning to them. At times, we inhabit the same alphabets without anyone taking on another troubling kingdom, but I would still condemn them for performing under devil horns.

Because nostalgia doesn’t mean homecoming. Or flat melancholy. Or compounded memories. We are not remembering the remembering. No rose-tints. No 1979. No transitions between childhoods.

Because I can’t communicate from the edge. I can’t communicate wearing a turtleneck. So tell me more. Tell me to flip off out of this town. Let’s get out of here and forget it for a couple years. I’ll call back.

You won’t be glad to hear from me. That’s fine. I’ll call it coming close to everything I wanted, which is saying something. Some years are just better-sounding than others. That’s a fact. Go ahead and be a hot child in the city. Go ahead and fuse whichever conspiracy you want to with each other. Up and down has patterns, and it gets old, Sister Sledge.

Because I’m through with crying just for me, Action Jackson.

Because it’s more about worry, over whether you might get hurt. And it’s those salad days you want the most. The salads that went with the song. Almost reformed. Almost a house party.

Because we can’t look back to what we once were. We ache. We long. Then we found heavy metal and stupid pants didn’t matter anymore. End of story.

Because I don’t look like a girl anymore if I ever did. Today is the day I didn’t cry. You think there’s a difference between the devil and free spirits. I’m not so sure.