This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.
Illustration by Watson Frank
Saw you on the corner today, orange and blue somehow small and I missed our day in the sun in the summer and it snowed this week which didn’t make me think of you — I had in fact forgotten you until I saw you on the corner. In the time when we knew how to refract the best of ourselves, the sideways rolling-down of the mirror, the fat drops of rain in our open mouths when we threw back our necks and folded our collars over our sweaters. In the center then, open fields, wide parks. Four drinks in until we glitter, until you roll up your sleeves and there, scars. Do not answer my questions — I’m writing this story. I’m writing you onto the couch across from me. We were hand in hand in hand as always, growing more into all fields of vision, growing again.
I don’t want to be younger, I want to be older with you. I don’t want to go back, but I want you to come back.
Moving in and around like a bright spot across the cornea of my right eye, flickering in and out like water. You are still, on the corner. No cars are coming. I am walking away. I am turning back. The buildings are tall; all there is for them to do is stand. You are on the corner and in a second you will move away from me. We all always have the choice to make everything stop. I could say your name but I don’t. So you go, and so it goes.
Grace Novarr (she/her) is a junior at Barnard, studying English and other things. She is from New York City.