“I still can’t guess what you’re after.”
The first time I heard this song I was laying on the floor of an ex-boyfriend’s bedroom. We were staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars that we had stuck up there together, the year before when things were clearer between us. He was there beside me, staring up in that same lost sort of way that I was, and right at the starting chords to the song he reached over and grabbed hold of my hand. We did not say much, just held on tight and closed our eyes, letting the music wash over us, taking us back to better days. I remember a tear sliding slowly down my cheek, getting caught between the fabric of my sweatshirt and the curve of my neck. There was no way we could reconcile, even though during the seven minutes of this song we were still us. We hid in it, in that “us”, until the song was over.
I can still smell that slight hint of tobacco and cologne that his clothes always gave off. The scent that stayed held within his jacket, the one I never did give back. I can vividly recall the way one of my shoes dangled half off my right foot, and how his thumb had a slight callous on it from this nervous habit of chewing on it when he thought no one was looking. He was the first boy I ever loved with every part of my being, enough so that I felt gutted when we parted ways, and enough that I know a part of me will always love him, just as I am pretty certain I will always love this song.