Postcard, to a Friend from Twenty-Four Years Ago

They treated me for bipolar disorder. I wanted you to know. Although we still think it was the Adipex-p and weed mimicking a disease— because it hasn’t happened since. Hard to believe it’s been more than twenty years— that fourth of July, when I read your mind at the Washington Mall, and ran off to watch fireworks alone in the grass. It was wet, and I could tell— you thought I was magic. You walked toward me like a wish, said, didn't think I’d ever find you. You can see how the backdrop of that night conspired to spell out fate: the moment convincing, the exploding air supportive of it, I came to— in a hospital, you still looked like Clark Gable, but your mythical gait was just a limp— you’d played baseball in college. My ESP had just been synapses cracking communal phrases inside my skull, masquerading as serendipity in wolf's clothing. all of it— an embarrassment. You stopped returning my messages, after I underlined phrases at random in a Chicago weekend newspaper, then tried to get you to believe with me. I drew a picture of Ganesha in the margins as further evidence of our destiny as gods. When the mind starts shuffling everything it's ever touched, with Vegas-dealer speed, it doesn’t take much to get to a version of the story where you’re holy. You could’ve easily taken advantage, but you didn’t. I think you knew I’d have let you. Wish you were here.