If only I had known our time together was to be cut short so soon.
I remember you as if it was yesterday, sitting precariously on the corner of my desk, winking seductively in the half-light of the morning. Just the night before we had met under the brightness of the full moon, your journey coming to an end while ours was just beginning. And then I thought there was no rush: we had all of spring quarter to get to know each other, ten weeks stretching in front of us with the promise of darties to attend and fountains to hop. I dawdled, as one does in the first stages of a relationship, shyly introducing you to my friends but otherwise hiding you from view. So foolish I was, so naïve in the early March rain.
When the time came to make a hasty flight back home, I was filled with delusions that it would only be a week or two, nothing more, an extended spring break at most. How potent could this virus be, anyways? I fretted about leaving you alone for any extended period of time, but knew that matters were out of my hands. Now, as I sit at my desk at home a mere 2.450.3 miles away, I can see how mistaken I was; instead of taking you out on scenic bike rides around campus and exploring new dimensions together, all I get are threats of having to leave you alone for unspecified amounts of time or, even worse, throwing you out altogether like you are just any black market narcotic that could be found on the street. They simply don’t understand the effort and resources I had to put into finding you nor the plans we had for each other, let alone the effort you had to put into simply making it into my hands.
Thus, instead of being a part of a community that would have cherished your existence, you have only the cold, faux wood of my desk to comfort you as the weeks roll by. Only time will tell if we will be reunited, if it was ever meant to be. Notices about the university packing up our rooms and the FoHo’s incessant emails of the risk of legal action from the county show up in my inbox, further reminding me of our distance.
