The intersection between 9th St. and Radley. The second booth in Ronaldo's with the street-side view. You always said they made the best spaghetti. The park on 5th with the rusty swings and the creaky monkey bars. You covered my bruised knee with a chunk of some college t-shirt
(more) you found in the back of your car. "If you're lucky that'll heal up nice like the fat one on my arm". The bench outside old Mrs. Monroe's sweet shop. One scoop of pistachio and a chocolate malt for me. These are the kinds of wounds that you can't put under ice. The things that leave you will a dull sensation, like something from a missing limb. Sometimes it just feels like an itch. Other times it's this phantom pain that no amount of Advil can ease. Now I know that the lines connecting each spot to the next trace out the map that you've been sketching on my heart since I was born. (less)
