A Mind I Knew

You make the mistake of reading old emails. You notice the ease in every word. Nothing epic, yet something epic stitched in every affection, every greeting and closing. There's so much romance in youth, in fighting together. You make the mistake of reading old emails, but you're glad you did. Your new email from your lover is a catalogue from Rick Owens Home. He gushes about wearing black and looking disaffected and sexy. There are ostrich skin pillows, metal black cubes covered in pony fur, and mink involved. You run for miles these days and is beginning to look cooler and more disaffected day by day. You wrote him an email with headers that mention consistency, timelines, and management just to illustrate that point. This is "me knowing exactly what I want," I tell friend A. Friend B tells me, "this is you paranoid?"

End of story, you don't even like writing emails anymore. Maybe all that's left of the emotional side of you is the photo she took of you, in black of course, leaning and looking disaffected.