pictures of yore.

Smoke rings linger in the front seat. You exhale and the circles come spiraling out of your mouth and make pillows in the air by the rearview mirror. I suddenly remember when your memory used to mean something. The ashes on the tip of the cigarette crumble and disappear. I remember how we shared a pillow and the cold tips of our noses touched, the moon shining, my head spinning. The tip burns red for a moment as you take a breath and more ashes form as you inhale lightly. Now it only seems funny that we ran down the streets of Berkeley, you holding my arms in a dark alley, my nose running, your friends growing impatient. I laugh at my naive longing now because I can see outside of myself. At the time, my whole world could be summed up in one memory.

It's strange to me how I look at past versions of myself and want to run to her rescue, protect her from what she will inevitably face. I wonder if many other women do the same. And if my life is simply meant to be a progression, then why can't I understand who I have been and who I have become? The girl who longed for your fingertips on the edges of my lips no longer lives in me. Now, I couldn't care less about whether or not you stick around. Come and go as you please; I plan on doing the same. That is my philosophy. And in this new philosophy, I have no room for romantic idealisms because the reality of my own mercurial mind has become more real than anything else these days.

The smoke rings clear, and I am in my bedroom, falling asleep, thougths all disappearing, and the only face that ever enters my mind is my own.