I remember one sunny day in September, sitting on the corner of Dwight and Telegraph, strumming my guitar absent-mindedly—what song is this again?—my myopic eyes in constant scanning patterns, searching crowds, reminiscent of the night before, when I found and lost and found you again. Remember I gave you that American Beauty that my friend plucked from the Cosmic Splat? I still smell its sweet petals somehow. And then we spent the night in a forest of eucalyptus by a running stream and caught the first rays of sunshine in each other’s faces. Yes?
But then you left. I remember watching you go, feeling doom settle into my marrow, regretting that I somehow played my stoic card too well, frightened that indifference leaked in with that borrowed Dylan line: we’ll meet again on the Avenue. What do you do, though, when you’re young and your heart is paved with scar tissue? Loving hard hurts.
And so I bent strings and searched, but the day was fading, and I needed money, so out came my tarot deck for fortune telling: past, present, future, power of individual to control the matter, hopes and fears, fate and environment, final outcome… ad nauseum, always keeping those dark major arcanum at the deck’s bottom. All along my eyes continued darting around, searching desperately.
Fear crept in. Maybe you were lost. You didn’t even know Berkeley, and why… why was I so stupid to let you go? I should have stayed with you, made sure you got home at least. And, then, deep from that dark burrow where rejection resides came a mocking voice, taunting me, assuring me someone so wonderful was never meant for me, “Good fortune has moved on, sucker. Enjoy misery.”
Whatever. Good riddance, right? Women are so complicated anyhow. But now I was pissed, stabbed again. I hate Love. Love is merciless.
Isn’t it funny how life just seems to pivot on a few key moments? Right then was mine, ours, when you appeared and rescued me from loneliness forever.
Thank you, my dearest, for coming back to me.
