If I wanted to, I could write stories about lying in bed, really drunk with really scrapped knees, and the feeling of the cool linens against them as I tossed and turned. If I wanted to, I could write stories about going to beautiful places and lying out in the sun for hours so I can be beautiful, but becoming a canvas for heat rash instead. If I wanted to, I could write stories about chain-smoking cigarettes by myself in the dark because they remind me of you and the things you reminded me: I’m lovely, I’m wonderful, I make you feel things you’ve never felt before. What I want to do is write stories about us and how we fell in love headfirst, eyes closed, aimed and ready to hit the mark. But we never did and I’d rather not remind myself of how badly we missed and the girls you now kiss.