The pale glow of a halcyon dream echoes in mind as I witness the passing of a meaningless afternoon. These written memories are stowed away in an Adidas shoe box, fragments of a time when my vision was blurred by a boy I met on the bridge that cloudy autumn night. There we stood, in a familiar view between two distant skylines. He kissed me, and slipped inside that black van, disappeared into the veil of fog that shrouds my conscience to this day.

We were 11 years old then, and now, dozens of seasons later, I find myself asking, where did you go?

That answer strikes the mind in illuminating flashes – a future that had always been a millimeter shift away – he smiles at that NCAA trophy in hand, then looks to her as though that moment I shared with you nine years earlier remains as a hollow hallucination.

I was sprawled on the front lawn for a while, in the darkness of inky sky, staring into the brightness that was a streetlamp several feet away. The tears sort of found its way to the dirt, and I laid with it.

It was a childish innocence, to harbour a decaying hope that no resurrection could conjure into a reality.

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