I still recall you, Linda,

storming past Richard's table

screaming at the support band

‘Call that music’—

a symphony of chaos

that brought Ben and me

to tears of laughter,

yet only fueled your fiery anger.

Again, in the Fishbowl's haze,

I stumbled upon your clash with Mo Dave.

"What's this chatter about?"

I dared to ask,

and Dave, with a shrug,

said, 'Nothing Personal.'

Your gaze, a storm on the horizon,

demanded clarification,

and as Dave echoed his words,

you stormed off, a tempest unleashed.

You, a petite force,

with hair that danced

between hues of rebellion—

once a fiery red,

then cloaked in darkness,

only to resurrect

in shades of passionate red

the following month.

Photographs linger in my room,

frozen moments of your vivacity,

now cloaked in layers of dust and rust.

A relic that almost matches

the untamed fervor

of your once-bold locks,

captured when we met

at Mike's housewarming.

And now, Linda,

a phantom of memories,

vanished like echoes in the wind,

leaving only the residue

of laughter, rage, and the hues

of a hair-color kaleidoscope.

I still recall you, Linda,

storming down those stairs

then sprinting out of the door

with the wind applauding

your tempter

then laughing behind your back

running into the sunrise

the checkpoint world

over the gateposts

and everything in between. "