It’s a stilted confession from your mouth, your lips blue bitten from her stare, her absence, your inability to let things go and I, eighteen and weary eyed, understand better than anyone.  Some moments I catch myself wishing I didn’t get it, didn’t want it, as much as I do, hummingbird dizzy, because  darling, you are so much like the vase my mother never bought me, so I keep my flowers tucked  in my thighs, saving them for later. It’s always later. You’re hoping I stay.
- QUESTIONS OF A NEW LOVER. (x.v)