Some days, I think I see the dead. At first, I refuse to catch myself, I get excited.. The familiarity of a posture, of hair, style of dress. It fools me. Momentarily.

I know better, I've been here before and seen it for what it is, impossible. Still, I can't help but think they hide from me, but are not truly absent. I know their songs, their smells. The second boy I ever kissed left the scent of Old Spice on my sheets, he taught me the words to Waterfalls, when I never would have known.

Things changed and we became so different, not even close. but I went to his funeral. I listened to other former friends fight over who grieved most. I fought tears - it had been a long time - I wasn't sure I had earned the pain.

The other one was worse, he followed so quickly. and I never really knew him, we weren't even friends. It affected me more to see that so few people had been. And I was used to our routines of passing and never speaking. I delude myself into thinking those rhythms continue.

They follow me, appear when I don't expect it, before I remind myself of the facts. So I do a double take, and stare hard at boys who are never who they shouldn't be.

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