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I don’t think of you often these days. Johnny Tremain still does it every time, of course. And when I see a certain type of young, somewhat gawky redhead. Those are synapse flashes, brief and barely impacting the roar that is my conscious mind.
Once in a while, something compels me to go to Bandcamp and listen to Everything, Now! Their first two albums. A lot of the lyrics reflect aspects of our relationship, and drive home how final and everlasting the ending was, is, and will remain.
Not that I want to date you. I’m not.. I’m not aching for some unmet soulmate, or a slightly used, already met soulmate (once we cut the edges off), the emotional tampon version of the cleanest kleenex in the pile. Considering I did ache that way from a young age until roughly age 30, it’s unusual and I you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
You distanced quickly and increased the distance when you could, which was smart. I can’t blame you. I can blame me, and I do, while I hadn’t burned the bridge, then been hurtfully free with my affection in plain view on top of the ashes, then yelled immature shit via FB message (yeah, ouch) as a final desperate attempt to.. I don’t know what.
I wish I hadn’t lost you completely. I’ve met thousands of people, and given my drive-by tendencies with emotional intimacy, I’ve known a lot of them well. Not many stack up to you. I didn’t have the common sense to treasure you as a lover, so it’s unsurprising I didn’t have any more when it came to valuing your friendship. I was a deeply shitty person in those days, unfortunately for me and anyone in my orbit.
I was a hot fucking mess. Not to excuse anything, I am stating a fact. I was a set of subconscious reflexes until I hit 30. Or it seems that way at 35. I try not to regret the past, because that’s a well of sorrow that runs everdeep. Do we regret each decision, or the results? Do we regret the emotion, or the action?
Does it matter? I regret losing you. It’s to the point where I’m afraid to befriend and be open and honest with people who remind me of you, even if I met them yesterday, for fear of fucking shit up again.
In retrospect, I’m glad you eventually turned away. There is a lot of purely pathetic base behavior I’m glad you didn’t see. I wish you’d seen even less, but wish in one hand, shit in the other, as my grandmother used to say.
I hope you’re happy, at least on average. I usually am. But I will probably be pulling up Bandcamp and wallowing in nostalgia when Haley’s comet next comes by, and wondering who you think about when you listen to Tom Waits neatly wrap and deliver youthful nostalgia in Martha.