I’ll remember that it’s been weeks or months since someone touched me, but it’s also been years since someone told me what to do. I’m lucky to get to trust myself. I wonder what it’ll be like to invite someone in—to move the green chair so it’s next to the wall to make room for their little table, to replace some of my books with theirs, to have to house a copy of Lolita, years after I left my original with my very own Humbert Humbert. I am lonely because I have grown up. The light in my apartment filters in through my curtains, spilling pink and green and blue sunbeams in my space. I’m alone
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