You were never hard to love. Too easy, in fact. Like cutting into melted butter. You weren't hard to recognize when I saw you across the bar that night. The memory that was forgotten, neglected as a teenage fantasy, came flooding back. 1967, crowds of teenagers, bunched up everywhere around the park. Loud voices, the smell of dirt, spilled beer and prepubescent sweat. The taste of peach schnapps on my tongue, laminating my mouth and my mind buzzing like fireflies. Sneaking away into a meadow, just you and me, your rough hand grabbing mine. The taste of your tongue, wet and aggressive, the feeling of your mane under my hand. You were mine for 45 minutes. Then you disappeared again. You were on my mind for two months after and I didn't even know your name. I walked around town looking for you after school, hoping you would appear somewhere, anywhere. Years later and there you were. What took you so long? It was too late. You were someone important now, I understood from the crowd surrounding you. Enchanting girls with long, long legs on high platforms begging. A star.
