17: the eulogy I never wrote

I think we all fell in love with being 17.

We all fell for clear eyes and t-shirts bundled by cotton socks

We shared lotion in tiny bottles, eating hummus and trail mix in class,

pretending fourth term would never come.

Because tiny, old cars with fraying seats and tight belts made the lights a little brighter on Friday's.

Hoodies felt like jerseys and we didn't know the dance,

but we had songs to keep us on the bleachers.

And all of us could see 100 yards of half-rain, half-snow and smell In-n-Out after.

Buses felt softer, with a frayed satchel and a boy who liked Youth Lagoon

You were the only boy that ever kissed me on my doorstep and that kinda matters, right?

Boots that didn't stay laced, and Homecoming kiss aftershock and black lights on basketball courts.

We clapped at assemblies, but mostly laughed our way into a table at Kneaders,

soon-forgetting ACT scores and AP Psych tests.

Summer met Utah sand on windy volleyball courts and we fell in love with how terrible you played

and now I keel over the envelopes you write my name on.

We made bets on foreign countries and crooned guitars with virgin hands

sometimes pulling John Mayer out of its strings, all for the girl with soft hair.

You sat by the electric piano in a room, violent with happiness because he sang The Killers

And he pushed you up against a fence and kissed you hard so I don't know who wins here.

You fell in love with being 17 because a dark-haired boy with a clever tongue

sawed through your skin but it healed thicker,

So he ran away singing in Spanish, leaving you with words of amor to keep those wounds from disappearing altogether.

You said some praiseworthy things on Twitter,

Homecoming was a bust and you don't talk to Preference date anymore,

but he held your hand without invitation

so I guess you won't forget him.

I fell in love with 17.

with Youth Lagoon and Christmas cards and toxic 80's references

when I discovered Lorde and vowed to become Lorde.

Dancing with that one boy like idiots, the night he got an interception 

and the student section started chanting my name even though we've been just-friends for years.

I fell in love with 17 under a campfire.

I fell in love with oxygen and gold hair.

With Gatsby and the vapor I breathed when it snowed

I fell in love with open minds and new ideas.

And I threw away the notes I took as a sophomore

and took new ones on a canvas.

When I was 17, my mother said to me,

"Don't stop imagining. The day that you do is the day that you die."

Youth Lagoon