Maria-Andrea Nivon Galvez

with a ketchup stain on the sleeve even though I hate  

ketchup. I miss you like I miss playing  

outside during recess, during the autumn  

sneeze, sucking on pesticide  

filled honeysuckles and scrapping the scent of worn  

metal off my blisters. 

I miss you 

even though I know you are the mitten  

mismatched to my glove. We  

can no longer fake a fit, one size 

did not fix all. As you hang around your circle, 

I tiptoe along the borders, watching  

you from my rearview mirror. I see your eyes  

catching, chasing after the breeze I leave, refracting our  

memories, fuzzy with fog of neglect. Our strings of fate  

are too entwined for me not to notice  

your rigid spine. Paused breath. Too intertwined for you not to notice 

my misstep. I knew you once,  

like I knew my favorite purple princess shoes: creases,  

laces, and all three gems missing on the left heel. 

I miss you, like I miss my old  

nightmares, those that would inspire  

stories of heroes and dragons and romanticized  

helplessness; except now I miss you like two shots of  

nostalgia, a harsh buzz, turning my stomach  

empty, until all that’s left, are the promise of  

closeness vibrating between us. A missed  

chord on a plastic guitar. Because our strings could never snap  

even with the distance  

of missing you. 

Fall 2024