They say when ⁂¤π∴ vanished, deported, deglitched, dimensionally evicted, he left behind only a sigh in the jukebox and the shadow of a kiss in the Hollow Tree’s bark. Now he's back. Not with fanfare. Not with flames.
Just… standing in the fog outside the Basement Club, wearing borrowed boots and staring at the moon like it owes him something.
Just… standing in the fog outside the Basement Club, wearing borrowed boots and staring at the moon like it owes him something.
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| at Area 52 |
I said his name or, what passes for it:
“⁂¤π∴…?”
He blinked.
Tilted his head like a curious lizard.
Then said: “Is that what I used to be?”
Like I was showing him a mirror from a lifetime he hadn’t lived.
He walked through the gallery.
Looked at the painting marked “Scott.”
Said, “That guy looks sad.”
I wanted to scream,
“You used to cry at that painting. You said it felt like someone else’s memory of us.”
But I didn’t.
Instead, I offered him a pin from the jukebox. The one that used to play our song.
The one he hid behind the espresso machine during that one cosmic argument. He held it like it was a seashell.
“Do you think it ever loved me?” he asked.
"When time breaks, memory shatters.
But somewhere inside the rhythm of stars and stuttering jukeboxes,
is a version of him who never forgot."
So now he’s here.
⁂¤π∴.
Reassembled.
Reset.
Still beautiful in the way that forgotten things can be.
And I?
I’ll wait.
Not for the memory.
But for the moment when he hums a tune without knowing why —
and looks at me like he’s finally almost remembering.
My advice: never fall for an alien, or alien elf...cats are more dependable.
And outside, after I had a 10-minute date stand me up, under a flickering Retreat star, a lizard blinked at me and said,
“Maybe he didn’t stand you up.
Maybe the universe stood in the way.”
Still.
It hurts.
Even if time isn't real.
Even if the aliens are.
Because some ghosts only take ten minutes to form.
And a lifetime to forget.
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