Those estival lights consumed my state of permanence as I ran past those burnt-out streetlamps on Spagos Crescent. That Canada Day still haunts my silent nights, and I find myself missing the concept of being seventeen. This one’s for the girl I fell in love with on Ouellette Avenue, the twenty-seven-year-old man I met on a golf course one summer, and that blonde-haired blue-eyed hell-of-a-ride whose enchantment on my heart is an immortal curse of no mercy.

There are moments when I almost forget that familiar Adidas shoe box in the closet of my old bedroom, a nostalgic relic of a world that was only a few blocks wide. There’s a shard of my heart that I buried into the dirt of the Ganatchio Trail. Stubborn as I am, I could never unlearn her.

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