I once, in the throes of early post-adolescent passion, wrote 30 love poems for someone.

We used to have cookouts around a fire with new friends.

I sang Samuel Barber and he played guitar.

We used to get slices of pie at the coffee shop and try to goad each other into flipping the bird; I kept score.

The last time I saw him, he had grown a soul patch and ditched the baseball cap he always wore, which had inadvertently emphasized his ears. I missed it.

I drove him home through the dry summer air, pocked with lightning and sad neon. He asked me not to forget him as he hugged me tightly.

I haven't, but I don't know where he is now.

So much for love, huh?