Sixty-six copies, but none quite the same, Every word we traded, a flicker, a flame. We laughed in the margins, we wept in between, In jokes laced with sorrow, in things left unseen. You called me Judas with laughter in tow, But wasn’t it you who taught me to go? We danced on the edge of a maybe, a not— Of wanting, withholding, pretending we're caught. The mirror remembers what silence forgot, Eyes locking in truths the lips never brought. Tension disguised in the guise of a tease, A headache, a whisper, a longing for peace. Dust in the halls, the weight of the test, You fought with your breath and still gave your best. Iron ran low, but spirit stayed high, Even when “fuck it” was your battle cry. You joked about D just to soften the ache, But I saw the cracks that no smile could fake. “I hate existing,” you typed through the pain, Your darkness wore glitter in the guise of rain. And I? I replied with a laugh and a lie, Afraid of the truth hanging just nearby. You passed by to touch, to prove that you could, To remind me of softness misunderstood. So here’s to the moments we almost were whole, To holding on tightly while losing control. Sixty-six copies of almost and might— But I’ll always remember us this way... even in spite.