We met when you wore neon baggy sweatshirts and my voice was two octaves higher.  Your pockets were full of tracts and I excitedly showed you my homemade ones, laminated to boot.  You mindlessly bounced a hacky sack in a circle of friends and rode a longboard to the beach. My Minnesota accent confused you, but you couldn’t resist playing “tag” with me.  ________________________________ And so, on Wells Street, with snowflakes on eyelashes, we became a thing.  Syrupy sweet, the fastest of friends.  We rode all the colors of the L, walked miles of Windy City, and shared dreams gloriously soaked in faith and naivety.  You drank black tea, while…