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I even started believing former desires pass, that I could reconcile the past through ghosts of the present. (Maybe I’m the ghost.) Tonight, on the phone with a woman with whom I once fell in love, after recounting the mind-numbing details of an infatuation with a one who canceled a date with me (cough cough) forty minutes before I was supposed to pick her up, I understood I know nothing about love, nothing about desire.

A pop tune’s fragment came to mind, “that all who fell in love were foolish.” I have always loved you AB, ERH, and KRP. You, too, Sarakittie.1

There was a point to this onset, to this last week of extended childhood, but I can't recall what that point was. Something about inevitability and acceptance, solitude and recompense. I don't know why things become the way they do. I only know I wish you were here. end of article

1 I remember even you, Erika, who I met in Los Angeles at the age of four, and you, Jen, who confessed, “When I met you, I thought you were a bimbo.” I love all of you whose lives have touched mine in the way that only desire and romance can. You, Laura Beesley, and Barbara Johnson, and Donna Schwab. I remember every contour of each of your faces, every line and curve, every dimple. I remember your beautiful smiles.