The boy I want to call with sketchbooks filled with all kinds of jawns and skin made of the same fabric of my sheets doesn’t exist anymore. The hockey rinks where I cheered for him in the stands, wearing one of his jerseys have closed down. Just after we decided to put up for sale signs inside of each other. He used to send me music and pictures of art that reminded him of me because I hadn’t felt him on my neck in a while. He was the part of me that was still a kid even though we both lost our innocence a long time ago, and we can never go back. We came to the terms that people change, and they don’t change back. I don’t know how we forgot, there’s no changing simple science. The way you can’t make pancakes back into batter.