I still remember the first time we met, you know.
Wait, no, no I don't. I remember the first time I recognised you, that's all.
That's pretty indecent, that I forgot you. I can remember how I met them, why can't I remember you?
My muse, my multi-wigged muse (for how else do you explain your hair, which changes colours more rapidly than leaves between seasons?). The torment of my soul, for so long. And I can remember nothing of how we met, save a later memory of my ridiculing you for a pencil case which resembled a small jungle cat.
Christ, your pencil cases so frequently featured in our conversations. First some sort of wild feline, then a domestic helper dog, then some convoluted pattern, some explosion of colour, that defined you perfectly, and yet I cannot recall.
The details of your face are slipping from my mind.
Still, it doesn't much matter. I was never more to you than a constant source of morale, a willing supplier of anything you wanted — money, pick-ups, Simon & Garfunkel. Anything. I would have given you anything, and gladly accepted what meagre offerings you gave me in return.
Four years this October, since we met. Two, since you walked out those gates and clean from my life.
And I still know nothing about you, except for the way you moved and how your eyes sparkled when you smiled.