Let’s turn back a page first,
to freshman year
and my first glimpses
of the school.
I remember the graffiti.
A perfectly round hole
like a bullet hole
in the wall of the hall
leading to the receptionist’s office.
So much graffiti.
I laid a sheet of paper over it,
traced it in pencil,
and recorded it forever.
Each “I love r.b.”
each pair of initials
each “mark wuz hurr”
I found my favorite
piece of graffiti.
It was my favorite
because it looked like
it had been carved
in the scratchy handwriting
Of the boy
I thought I loved.

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