Nostalgia (or, Why’d You Set Me Off On Black Underwear?)

Who’d have thought….

Out of Animo

How do you remember me?
Most times, I still think of you with the smell of my mouth drying on your skin. I remember you under my nails, wanting to pull you in with so much force that there could remain nothing between us — neither air nor breath. I still grimace, then smile. Then grimace again.
We were a savage thing.
We taught me how to be without a filter, how to open my arms to you, and my words, and my heart.
We still tremble me. We pull at my gut when I’m lonely.
I agreed when you called it nostalgia because that’s what it is, sometimes. Sometimes I want the us that was then, in the afternoon at your dad’s house. I want us pretending to read books, I want us playing make-out Chicken, waiting to see who would reach for the other first. I want us…

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