I taught you how to say my name correctly Uhn-juh-nuh and you taught me how to say the name of your hometown Can-an-day-gua. A fair exchange, perhaps.
Canandaigua. Town that manufactured Arbor Mist, the cheap artificial wine I bought [being the only one of drinking age] that we drank all summer,
well,
until July when everything fell apart.
In August When things settled down when you decided that you didn’t love me anymore, we issued that age old empty promise exes make: “We’ll still be friends.” Exchanged a few Facebook messages and that was that.
I was never in love with you, but you still made it into my zine, and I still think of you from time to time, visit your Facebook page as if...
well, who knows? It’s always the same with everyone I used to know, but Over is Over, no social media changes that.
When I see that name: Canandaigua, I think of you, but it’s just another name and you’re just another Over.