Dear Pixie Cut,
I saw you ever so briefly under a waxing gibbous in Chinatown, where I had never been before, least of all in Philly. I was on a brief excursion with my girlfriend and both our mothers and someone none of us talk to anymore. We went into an ice cream shop; our parents stayed behind. I came out and found you leaning up against the wall. I think you had the sole of your foot pressed to it, too. You looked so much younger than you sounded. You traded stories with my girlfriend’s mom, after which you realized you had something or other in common, and from there you got along swimmingly. You smoked, I think, but I don't quite remember; and you wore a jacket, even on a summer night. You had such a pretty smile, a real one, the kind that lit up all your face, and I don’t remember what you talked about but I never saw it leave you for very long.
You said you were a cold-hearted bitch now, but there was no way I could make myself believe that. I still can’t. I think it’s just a mask you carry to protect yourself, because you weren’t wearing it when we talked to you. You were warm and you were vivacious. You radiated love, and wherever you are now, I hope you’re happy. I hope you don’t have to wear masks anymore.
And that's why I remember you.
Love,
Jacket Patches
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