A. S.

It was on
that sunny day
at Cal State Fullerton

on that concrete
plateau by Carl’s Jr.

Your hair was shaggy
and you were thin,
shoulders poking out
from the straps of your
full backpack,
heavy with files,
evidence, outlines
of counterarguments and
opening statements.

I loved our
glorious
geekiness.

Only halfway
through high school
and already confident
we could talk circles
around just about
anyone.

I’d forgotten about
how we met

until I remembered

that it was through
your lovingly worn-in,
leather-padded
headphones that I first felt

the brain-consuming,
consciousness-engulfing,
reality-forgetting

effect of music
blaring into my skull
cushioned over my ears.

It was the OST
from .hack//SIGN

Nerdy as fuck, maybe.

Beautiful, definitely.

I tried to remember,
just now, how we met

since the last time I
saw you was over
spring rolls and peanut sauce
in Westminster,

and the time before
that was in a room that
smelled of wonderful, musty
paper where you played
doctor to books,

That sunny day
in Fullerton,
in all our
debate geek glory,

when I felt music
for the first time–

Ah, yes,
that was when.