Mitski said nothing in the world belongs to me but my love is mine all mine
I would drive all night just for someone to open their door and tell me: “You look like shit, you look absolutely foul, when did your face get bland, when did you stop forming opinions, when did your novelty wear off? It’s really good to see you. I missed you.”
The barista at my local coffee shop is starting to remember my order. I want to change it from a chai latte to a cappuccino sometimes but I’m afraid she’ll forget who I am if I do that.
My first crush in high school asked me one summer day why I laughed at everything he said. “Because I like laughing,” I said in the back of a cab, my right cheek stuck to the leather headrest, my neck craned so I could look at him while he sat facing forward. He raised his eyebrows at me.
I wrote some more letters to people whose contents were too honest, recalling gross details that I wanted others to note in me. My gynecologist sent me another bill.
I dropped off flowers, baked cookies, made dinner, offered wine, walked for miles, talked until my eyelids fluttered, paid for drinks, then waited around. I circled the block for nearly an hour.
If I could take a drive, I would.