You text me “Hey” like it’s an overnight shipped package filled with gifts and knick knacks.

I’ll rip off the cardboard strip and find an apology slip, signed with your name written in cursive. There will be pictures of us doing the things you promised we would: eat dinner, watch movies, read aloud stories.

You text me “Hey” as if we have already spoken.

We sat outside of a Starbucks, shared a raspberry scone, and exchanged laughs amongst our lattes. We hugged at the end of our coffee date. You smelled like cheap cologne; your smile was blemished with a green lip ring. I don’t take note of your flaws because you hand feed me the scone like calories are compliments.

You text me “Hey” like I forgot to apologize. I silenced my phone and deleted your number before going to class.

You text me “Hey” because starting a conversation with anything else is considered taboo. I’ll let you snooze on the tail of the “y” as it sways like a hammock. Fall asleep and curl into a dream where I meet you in person just to say “hello” back like I have dreamt of you many times.

You text me “Hey” because your pockets have no room left for change.

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