I wrote this on September 24/25.

Tonight even though and maybe especially because I had a cold,
I went out. It was my last Thursday in Gainesville.

I brought my hips and my painted eyes around the Top and the Atlantic.

I think I thought tonight, and maybe have always thought,
that I could drink certain people into the world,
Ghosts of people, of social scenes,
people who moved away so long ago, people who are
simply aged out of existence.

I think after the first time I went to the Atlantic at 18,
I got permanently lost wandering around in the dark hair and the black eyeliner
of some amazing face that belonged to someone who was never real,
but which belonged to a sass, an act, a strut I fell in love with.

I thought for a while that I wanted to date and kiss such a face, such a look,
and then I came to think that maybe I merely wanted to wear and strut in such a face,
and while maybe both remain true,
there is something unfulfillable now, and I am lost up a cul-de-sac,
permanently hungry, wandering in the darkness of a perfectly darkened pair of eyes;

I am bitten up with loveliness, eaten slowly by longing,
I will never approach such beauty. If I was once thin enough for it, I was too
awkward of mind. Now that I have learned something about how to sashay, my body betrays me,
I am no longer emo-thin. My hips may be sexy in a skirt but they will never have
the quick, shadowy sharpness I once wished for them.

I will never cut anyone’s attention in half with one one-hundredth of a glance.
My lips will never be cold, unattainable peaks, nor touch any.

There were nights when the Atlantic would spill out at 2am into the winter air,
and everyone was sweaty and lustful and suddenly very cold.
I wished just once to be in black leggings and black eyeliner with dark hair,
to be pointed, and in that moment to catch the eye of the same,
someone cutting the air apart with their dark eyes.