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?