but there's no way we can relive our youthful past

Maybe I should save this for the zine, but there's something that's been hounding me for awhile, and I want to write about it now.

My sister said, "I think there's a certain degree of permanency we expect from love, whether we're conscious of it or not."

I thought about an unerasable memory: kissing on a creaky futon and seeing the boy's eyes trace my unclothed skin. "Please," I whispered, "Don't," turning his chin up with a hand. He laughed, not a mean laugh, a laugh that was bewildered and sweet and said my name in the gentlest voice I have ever heard say my name.

I thought about this, and then thought: We're Not Friends. Not in a mad way, a vengeful way...not in any way except a profound and sad puzzlement. Something that at once seemed so big is now so gone.