Subject line: reality wrote my poem. April 29, 2015 by Hannah Brencher tuscaloosa, alabama. I’ve always hoped that it’d turn out. I always hoped we’d call ourselves more than a bonfire story of faded memories. I have photographs of us tacked on my bulletin board. I try and write down for each moment and every exchange we make in my little beat up journal. I find myself blaring the songs that bleed the memories we share. Why? Because I’m scared of time and it’s threats. I’m scared that it won’t let me keep him at least in my thoughts unless I force myself to rewind through rolls on rolls of that old school developed film and it’s tiny memories marked along the roll like a timeline. I’m scared time will take my memories with it as it passes. When I would think of him, my heart would long for the blonde headed, blue-eyed boy who wasn’t any cooler than the crocs he wore and his failed attempts at smooth talk. I longed for the boy that was simply himself because that’s all he knew to be. His words were like soothing little whispers to my ears. They keep me warm. He kept me warm. He was real. He was genuine. But.... He wasn’t mine. He never was. All I wanted to call him was mine and him to want to call me his. But he never once called me his. He only called my heart his as he took the already shattered heart of mine with him to college, which was the summer before my senior year of high school. I fought for it back, but the battle wasn’t easy or quick. It hurt like hell.When I would try and leave it all behind, that would be the day he would call out the blue, and I’d be back right where I was. Just like that. One phone call was all it took. And so, I chose to hurt because it was the only thing that connected me to him. Hurt and longing for his presence. It was something more than indifference, or the opposite of loving him. Time always wins. Why does time always have to win?I wanted him to love me like Johnny loves Baby. A fierce love that speaks for itself. A love that is exquisite and is worth fighting for. A love that matters. That’s all I really wanted: for us turn out like one of the pretty little poems that you tuck away in your dresser drawer.