The first moment we met, you had just spent the last forty-five seconds sliding your shoes across the carpet. You poked me in the neck. It shocked me. I pushed you down and you cried. That was kindergarten. I still remember how that moment tasted, like sharkleberry fin Kool-Aid and Ms. Hallison's home-made paste.
Our relationship went like that - you would shock me and I would hurt you and there would be a burst of flavor. It was more than that; a spectrum of color. That time we made our parents buy the biggest box of Crayola Crayons, 96 count with the sharpener in the side, so we could hold them up to our eyes, find a match. Yours were cerulean. They didn't have mine (if you mixed denim and sea green you were close).
That was so long ago and this is now, all is pale, except a little red heart covered in black crayon. It smells of wax, the past, your strawberry shampoo.