Souvenirs mélancoliques.

There’s always that one, isn’t there? That one who just sticks in your mind and shows up now and again in your thoughts.

Mine was a boy…oh I must have been 16 or 17 at the time. The first time I saw him smoking a cigarette on the old playground by the elementary school. Whatever it was about him, I decided to be really bold and I went up to him and asked him for a cigarette.

That’s how we met.

He had this mop of sandy hair and had this habit of dragging his feet when he walked. Sigh…he was lost and smart and hurt and lovely. I just wanted to tell him that everything was going to be OK, you know?

We spent all of our time together. He bucked school and we would go walking in the woods, or see a film, or go skinny dipping at night in the lake. Sigh. I loved seeing his eyes in the moonlight. So thoughtful and wild and kind and present.

Sometimes we would just…talk. About, well anything and everything really. And he would listen. And he would smile.

And it was beautiful.

But, of course, like all things that beautiful, it ended. I suppose it was my fault. Or maybe it really wasn’t meant to be. Or maybe it was a little more co-dependency and less love. We were obsessed with each other as only two adolescents can be.

And you know what? Every once in a while all I really want is a boy with sandy hair and wild, kind eyes to hand me a cigarette.

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