Friday, April 29, 2011

Yeah.  Like This.
Every so often, I stumble across a song in my collection that reminds me of my ex-best friend, who we'll call Dwight.  And every so often I'll dream about him, and it'll remind me of how great things were, rather than how badly it all ended.

I tend to avoid songs that remind me of ex's, whether they're friends or lovers or boyfriends.  I didn't listen to a single Billy Joel song for almost four years after Aaron and I broke up.  I gave up October Project after Martin shattered my heart by getting engaged to someone else while we were still dating (worst. breakup. ever).  I keep my Matthew Sweet and my Elvis Costello CDs even though I don't listen to them ever, but I turn off Elton John's "Levon" when it comes on the radio because it makes me cry thinking of a man who used to tear up whenever he heard it.   I still barely listen to the Smashing Pumpkins because I had to get over two guys who were both fans.

But I still listen to Cracker's "Sick of Goodbyes" and John Mellancamp's "Key West Intermezzo" and all the songs that remind me of Dwight.  I play Oingo Boingo's "War Again" and once again I'm on the NJ Transit and we're leaning against each other, half-asleep and sharing earbuds, alone in the car and alone in the world.  Or the Goo Goo Dolls "Blackout," driving through a hailstorm while our friend Mike stood outside in line for Green Day.  That would have been six years ago today--the day before my birthday.  We were buying party supplies for my infamous Sin City party.

I wonder if he ever listens to the mix CDs I made him or if he ever dreams of me.  I like seeing him in dreams, when everything is great and all is forgiven and nothing has changed.  I could apologize for what I did, but all it would do would be to forgive the past.  We have no future and I think we both know that, which is why neither of us has tried to reach out to the other.  We're different people and nothing we could do would be enough to reconstruct what we had. 

But when I'm listening to those songs, or I see his face in dreams, I get this wonderful bittersweet feeling.  Because for a few minutes while I'm sleeping, we're friends again.  For a few minutes, there's nothing between us but old jokes and an instinctual connection.  He's always exactly how I remember him, with his curls and his grin and that laugh.  And I wake up with one of our songs in my head.  Bon Jovi's "I Am" or Sonata Artica's "Shamandalie," which when I heard I knew was how things would end. 

And they did.  And it was my fault and Dwight if you're reading this, I'm sorry.

* *

I'm turning 28 tomorrow.  Time keeps ticking down, and the older I get, the more I want to distant myself from the past.  When I was younger, my whole existance was bent on trying to recapture what I felt like I'd lost.  I pined like it was a hobby, and while there's a part of me that misses the passion of those days, the better part of me is glad for what lies ahead. . . because what's gone is gone, and will never be again.  I'm learning to be okay for that.

The fire, Baby . . . there's no place in the world for our kind of fire.

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