I wonder what would have happened if that summer never did. If I could wipe away those few months of sun, or could have painted them the dark, cold grey that now imprints upon my memory.

I wonder if I would be as wise as I now am, would I be as indifferent and aloof? Or I would have stayed naive to the dark undertow of my relationships and let it filter into new ones? The nasty whirlpool of overlooked possibilities that whirled into bitter fantasies.

God I wish that summer never happened. Wiped off the map, cleared from the calender. Each regretful tear that rolls down my cheek feels like an acid burn, reminding me of how my rejection burnt them.

I forget which hurt more. Whether it was him taking that piece of me that never belonged to him, forcing his hand and then forcing mine. Making me cry like he swore he never would. Or whether it hurt more when he rejected me for rejecting him. Losing my best friend, years of secrets and memories and love that suddenly lay in a pool of tears and alcohol.

I had to learn to forget the lazy beach days, singing in the car to ‘Summer of ’69’. Forget all those nights backstage at gigs, hanging with drummers and dancing with scantily-clad groupies. Forget the evenings we would call the homes of our respective mothers to see who was putting on the better dinner. And I could say goodbye to anything else.

Goodbye Summer, I wish I had never met you.

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