Sending lost and alone standing offers.

You told me the differences between giant and colossal squid while I ate fried rice out of a plastic bowl.

"At this moment, I didn't feel shame or fear, but just kind of blah, like when you're sitting there and all of the water's run out of the bathtub."

There was a drunk man on the train last night. He informed everyone in our car that if there was an emergency, that oxygen masks would fall from the ceiling. He said that, thirty years ago, he got all the girls. He said that the wall street protests were the beginning. He said, "I just want everyone to be okay. I just want everyone to be happy." He asked for high-fives. He told the train that this generation was hooked to their gadgets, that there was nothing real or human anymore.

"Because at the end of the fucking day, you're not going to kiss your phone." And I said, "well, they do vibrate."

He gave me a high-five.

When Charlotte goes to parties, she brings her own thermos of milk. She doesn't drink. Or eat shellfish. She is in love with the quarterback of the football team. He has a biblical first name and great ass in those Levi's. She blushes swedish berry red. She has never been kissed.

I miss you.

Sometimes I write you text messages. They're articulate and witty and make me feel like the mysterious girl in the back of the tea-house reading 1984 and biting her Russian red bottom lip. But I don't send them. I delete them and acknowledge that I'm the girl who's too loud, sitting by the window, trying to catch a confused bee with a paper cup and a napkin to bring it back outside.

I think I know what I'm running from.

I'll see you on the weekend. We'll talk about six years ago. A boy named Ryan who you never met and who I always wished was you. Red quinoa and your stepmother. How old is your sister now? What the fuck happened to your hair? We'll use raw words. Salty words. We'll talk about the books we've read and my ex boyfriends. You'll laugh and I'll look down. The hug goodbye won't feel right. Our bodies have never fit together.

You taught me what nostalgia means.

We sat up as candles died, one by one. Until I couldn't see your eyes anymore and I could only feel you there. Are we embers? Sharp exhales. Start the flames.

I feel dangled like a participle.