Each grey incident of lying together with someone, in hindsight in what was near anonymity, and total meaninglessness, reminds me of this poem. Devoid of real connection, it’s like a latch that never should have existed but keeps catching months or even years later. When the never-a-second-thought indiscretion is unceremoniously brought to light again by the imprudent and misplaced nostalgia of another. It was a hello-welcome-goodbye, all well and good scene, dude, but go away.
Untitled/I, Being Born a Woman…
–Edna St.Vincent Millay
I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, —let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.