On the last day of camp every summer, I signed the back of my friends' shirts with a Sharpie. The grass was always dewy, I remember. "Keep in touch," we instructed. That week was life-changing. We would be friends forever. Until we weren't. We returned home, crying in our parents' sedans. We did the dishes, homework. We told our brothers and sisters about our week, but they didn't get it. Couldn't. You had to be there. I sent letters to my best friends from camp and they wrote me back. Pen pals. We stayed friends as long as we could, but real life and camp didn't have any crossover. We couldn't recreate camp. We lapsed back into our lives, unsure of which self was real.
We will wash our laundry and unpack our suitcases and order our books and real life will slam its way in. Our cock tattoos are gone now, but we are bonded nonetheless.