Tag Archives: Nostalgia


She exists in moments.

She could have stepped out of a renaissance painting. Rossetti told her one too many times to pout and she walked straight off the canvas in a cloud of red hair.

“She’s straight. Definitely 100% completely straight.”

There’s a freckle on her lip. It pulls me in. I want to brush my thumb across it, draw her mouth to mine. I’m staring. She is watching me staring.

“She’ll soak up as much attention as you give her though.”

The day is clear and bright as only sunlight in the mountains can be. Her nakedness is surreal, glorious. There is a weight to her movement. The folding of her limbs is the shifting of continents. It makes me quake.

She slides into the water next to me with a sigh. Her fingers graze my thigh more than once. Not an accident, her goblin grin tells me that.

I am thinking about marking every last one of her freckles with my teeth.

She must have thousands.

Thinking of You

I was just thinking of you while I came. You remember the day we had gone swimming when I held you down. You were such a mess from choking. It was lovely.

She’s an ex. We ended badly, not as friends. I had deleted her number, never expected to hear from her again. I don’t know why she sent it. Nostalgia maybe, or as a thank-you. Maybe she wanted to taunt me with what I was missing, or maybe she was just sharing something wanton and wonderful.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t tell her how it made me feel–strutting proud, important, and aroused, with only a touch of bitterness. I didn’t say anything before deleting her from my phone again. Maybe that was the wrong call. It takes courage (or at least bravado) to send a message like that. If I’d sent it, I know the silence would sting.

I’ve left a great many messages unsent. Some I regret not sending, even after years. The “I’m sorry”s and the “thank you”s make up some–it took far too long to learn that those should never go unsaid. But mostly, it was fear. What if I said something vulnerable, something that boiled down to “I’m thinking of you,” and the answer were “why should I care?” What if, ultimately, no one does?

I’ve disappeared from entire social circles, moved states, and changed numbers more than once. Only one friend has ever tracked me down. It is not hard to disengage, when I don’t feel valued. Not feeling particularly valuable makes not feeling valued an easy default. Of course, disengaging means not showing others they are valued too. It can be an isolating cycle.

It’s not one I’m willing to break out of. Sometimes the thought of building intimacy is just as frightening as the thought that it isn’t possible. Fear of either leads to holding intimate thoughts close.

These are a few texts left unsent, presented without context. They won’t ever reach the people for whom they were written. I think that’s probably all right.

The orange trees are blooming. The way you tasted and the way your beard felt when we kissed still hits me every time I smell them.


Remember when you said I could be your Jewish wife? I never thanked you. I know it was a joke, but I go back to that every time I’m afraid it’s not okay to want more than one.


It’s 2:03 on a Monday night. I’m awake. I know you’re awake. The last thing I want is to text you. The only thing I want is to text you.


I hate my skin without bruises. I miss running hands over them, feeling the kind of shabby and well-used that makes one real.


The Funny Thing…

The funny thing about you is you’re a hopeless romantic who doesn’t believe in love. In the movie of your life you, played by Anaïs Demoustier, will chase Lily Cole through a field in the rain to give her an umbrella and say it could never work out. Then you’d probably break six more hearts and die of pneumonia and ennui because you kept giving other people your umbrella.

I just found this message, clearing out my phone. It’s old, from about a year and a half ago. At the time, it made me smile. Tonight, it made me laugh.

It’s surprisingly apt, I’ll give her that.