She left him rambling post-it notes, more weird than endearing, more deranged than dear. He could recall the last one he found verbatim.
“hey. the truth is a sharp thing. i still smell you on my pillows. i wish you’d never touched me.”
i used to think
we were just like lorelai and rory; complementary angles
not without our overlaps
but joined together to create all that we are.
as i grew older i’ve come to realize
that we’re more like emily and lorelai; parallel lines
going through life together
but on separate paths
always close but never close enough.
that’s not to say one is better than the other
because all in all a mother’s love for her daughters is still there
because i think at some point all of our lorelais become emilys
because there is nothing simply stated about a relationship like this (like ours)
(cc, 2019)
“I don’t do anything with my life except romanticize and decay with indecision.”
— Allen Ginsberg, The Book of Martyrdom and Artifice
“But of course I didn’t see this crucial moment then for what it was; I suppose we never do.”
— The Secret History / Donna Tartt
