Walking today, I spied a man who looked just like you. Faster that I could prepare myself for I was slammed back into those nights spent at the spot, writing bad poetry to the rustle of palm trees or talking to the star I named purple, waiting for you to walk by, waiting for someone to come up with a cigarette or a story or a guitar, and usually all three.
I hurried home and stuck my head into my filing cabinet, looking for the notebook. And there it all was: aura boy, the God monad, Jordan the Flying Jew leaping over hedges to ask the color of your shirt, math problems, rampant girl-on-girl stage kissing. All of the things I had recorded so as not to forget and then promptly put aside were right where I'd left them. Those perfect moments were just what I needed to be thinking about today; they fit into today's empty spaces in my head like puzzle pieces nudged out from under couches.
Thanks, aura boy, for looking like a Venetian water boy and for having a lookalike here in Seattle. The universe, in small ways, always provides us with what we need.