Letter to a Drifter

He was always my intellectual match and conversation was never dull or boring. Perhaps clouded by a night of poring over each other for hours drinking dingy basement-bar booze, wondering who might make the first move, but it was never dull or boring. It was bound we would separate, prophetic by the virtue that he grifted me away from friends who saw him more clearly than I, my eye was fogged over like the horizon on that first frosty fall morning; obscured by a shimmery dash of humor–laughing at the voicemail he left right in front of me after I relinquished my phone number, something I used to yield control over much less unabashedly. Also, a dusting of hope–for a future I wanted to share with someone shiny, new.

The 2am phone call nearly went unnoticed, it woke me but almost blended right back into the dream I was consumed by. He’d drifted in and out of my life over the years, coming and going but detachable, never staunchly staying put and to me this did not seem amiss, I always knew I couldn’t keep him. Not like a talisman to be worn or carried around everywhere or a collector’s item on a shelf.

Yes a fancy reminiscence. Except the me he remembers is 22, 130lbs, and a force to be reckoned with. Now 29, shaped like a squash or some other disagreeable gourd, and banal even on my best days. We planned to meet for a cuppa joe tomorrow before he heads up to DC. I hope the disappointment isn’t stronger than the coffee.

What is it about the men of my past? Present tense relationships are impossible with these disreputable creatures but they come running with a remembrance of me then, now. The post-apocalyptic me, a shadow of my former self. Wraith-like, I wondered out the window. My mind, mutable as the seasons, recalling my glory days–treacherous and agile as a goddess of war.

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