I say “it’s funny” and “it’s interesting” before I share a thought that’s probably neither.

Dear Sally, Felicity spoke into her tape recorder and I was transfixed by the slow build of her world.

The thing is… she’d say, with breathy hardness, if it’s possible to be both at once. I can see her Converse sneakers, toe to toe. The way she bit her lip. Jade-hazel eyes and oversized sweaters to accompany oversized feelings.

Dear Sally,

I’ve been here before. Same day, high summer, same parking lot years ago. I remember how loud my heart was back then.

The thing is, I was naïve. If I could relive it, I’d spit out all the what-ifs, but couldn’t tell you where we’d land.

I don’t know if I’m any better now. I want to believe I am.

I guess I like the hum of certain disappointments. It’s like a song you keep on repeat, even when it hurts your feelings.

Sally, I want to write about it because it’s hazy and out of tune, and I like things better when they don’t give themselves away.

Back then, I didn’t say or do anything I really meant, but there’s some amnesia there. I attended parties and holidays, but I couldn’t tell you what I said to anybody, what I gave or what I got. I was afraid, and inside my apparition I thought I was safe.

It doesn’t matter, because my story had one fixed path.

My curfew is set by the oil I smear on my face at night: rosehip, carrot seed, and other scents I love. It’s funny, I first smoothed it on all those years ago. Sometimes the fragrance is normal and unaffecting.

Other times, it transports me to my hands wrapped around vivid orange and yellow wildflowers for the camera,

a look of knowingness, eyes softened by that loud pulse.

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