Barbie was still a hit, Ken was the dream. I thought wasn’t it, but things are never what they seem. If I got every reference you made, would you believe this wouldn’t be a mistake? Can we finally admit we’re both afraid? Is there a past that’s still giving you an ache?

If we met in your high school years, I’d begged my mom to keep the line open just in case you’d call. Dedicate you a song from Britney Spears, and wear my favorite jean jacket to impress you down the school hall.

Ask for your page number to send a #143 without our parents knowing what it means. When your parents ask say «it’s just Marie» but please, «don’t let her calls go to the machine». Cause you know I’d spill the bean, and you’d be all embarrassed, closed off in your room listening to Queen.

Our initials would’ve been written in every corner of my English notebook, crystalline carbon hearts adorning the poems I would’ve written about you. And when they asked for the yearbook picture of «Who’s most likely to marry», I’d glue the picture of us from the night at the arcade where you gave me a clue as if I was Nancy Drew.

What’s the point of saying goodnight without an arbitrary kiss? Is there a fear in you at the present that I’ll become something you miss?

If I met your family I know we’d get along playing Twister, Clue and Operation. I’d be spelling K-I-S-S- next to M-E in the game we’ve declared to be the best from our generation. Lisa Frank stickers would have embellished your cast, the one you got from riding your bike a little too fast.

Is there a way to salvage my delusion? I’m pressing the rewind button on the VHS; replaying every word and action you ever did providing enough evidence for my inaccurate conclusion. Was it your plan all along to have us under stress? Do ever wonder about moving abroad instead?

Carmen Sandiego did it all the time, nobody questioned whether she was past her prime. If I did, I would have to confess I’ve spent a few nights comparing us to Tuxedo Mask and the Moon Guardian with a worse age gap.

I’ll be the first to be honest, I appreciate you in ways others would consider modest. Truth be told, I’ll die with this secret like a chastity goddess, or an after party at the Bambu Motel.

Waiting in my wake gown to hear the death knell and welcome the little Reaper from the comfort of my bed. Surely, I’ve misread you with the tapes I’ve forged in my head.

But I refuse to be another one of your Polly Pocket Girls, the ones that fall in love with your beautiful soul. I cannot replace any of my goals nor give you the privilege of disassembling my emotional control like a Lego.

If I’m not considered your Patty, why do you try to impress me? You’re like Doug but with a shaggy. You’re letting our season die with a straight to DVD.

Is it the 4,346 days from my youth that scare you? Am I being silly for wishing I was born in the eighties too? Was it the cards destiny withdrew? Can I still be your favorite nineties baby even when I’m not in your view?