As One Found Dead on Faux Linoleum
︎︎︎ Daniel Tenreiro
︎ June 7, 2025
It was the raspberry quadrangle
in the reddest of summers.
You won’t remember the burgundy bangs or
beige backdrop of my maudlin career but you’ll
remember reading Joan Didion in my fifth-floor twin bed.
You might recall the songs we played,
or the rancor of Santa Fe, but only I can attest
to the precision of those first transmissions,
and you certainly won’t remember breaking into
the station at 2 AM after crashing Berkeley crush.
And by the way we kissed on the couch of the studio,
and you were a brown flower in the yellow fall.
Yes, I’m sure you’ll recall Bud Light blue on
the fire escape of the Physics building,
cranberry cocktails with the Greenwich girls,
and the Mory’s cups that left me fathomless our freshman fall.
But you’ve surely forgotten our southbound
drive on the I-95, the apple orchard on
which I stopped to photograph you,
the rot of every apple we sought to pick.
I’m well aware you’ll often think of
my blueberry madness that bluest of winters,
the frightening intensity with which I splintered.
And I guess I’ll never forget the faux
linoleum floors you found me dead
upon, but you’ll be shocked to learn I
can’t for the life of me recall what I inscribed
in the novel I gave you last summer.
in the reddest of summers.
You won’t remember the burgundy bangs or
beige backdrop of my maudlin career but you’ll
remember reading Joan Didion in my fifth-floor twin bed.
You might recall the songs we played,
or the rancor of Santa Fe, but only I can attest
to the precision of those first transmissions,
and you certainly won’t remember breaking into
the station at 2 AM after crashing Berkeley crush.
And by the way we kissed on the couch of the studio,
and you were a brown flower in the yellow fall.
Yes, I’m sure you’ll recall Bud Light blue on
the fire escape of the Physics building,
cranberry cocktails with the Greenwich girls,
and the Mory’s cups that left me fathomless our freshman fall.
But you’ve surely forgotten our southbound
drive on the I-95, the apple orchard on
which I stopped to photograph you,
the rot of every apple we sought to pick.
I’m well aware you’ll often think of
my blueberry madness that bluest of winters,
the frightening intensity with which I splintered.
And I guess I’ll never forget the faux
linoleum floors you found me dead
upon, but you’ll be shocked to learn I
can’t for the life of me recall what I inscribed
in the novel I gave you last summer.
Daniel Tenreiro is a writer and investor from New York City. If he is remembered for anything, it will be the great yen trade of summer 2024. You can follow him on Twitter @TenreiroDaniel.