These flashbacks trace the path backwards to a different summer. Different summers. There was a season out on Ouellette Avenue when my mind was following a girl who went out to revisit her childhood on the West Coast. That was the first moment in time when I felt this indescribable pain of withdrawal. Dirty blonde hair. Hazel eyes. But my heart momentarily replaced you with a raw beauty of an exotic taste. Fawn eyes. Lively laugh. In the middle drawer beneath my bed, I keep a thin black binder of all the poems I wrote those two months. Blue and black ink scrawled upon sheets and sheets of Hilroy. I close my eyes and suddenly I stand on the edge of a cliff at dusk, a red umbrella in one hand. Close my eyes again and there you both stand. Then there’s her. Blonde hair. Blue and gold eyes. I feel a bittersweet smile overwhelming my neutral state. And my mind breaks down right there.