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Wednesday, October 6, 2010

'you can never ever leave / without leaving a piece of youth'

For a period of about four months in 1996, time stood still and everything smelled like rain and wassail and root beer flavored lip gloss. That was the year I fell madly in love with a trombonist, the year my best friend betrayed me, the year I finished my first novel. Every year at this time, when the leaves change colors and the weather grows cold, I feel like I'm right back there, eating caramel apples and whispering about S-E-X, while Billy Corgan croons on in the background.

It's bittersweet.

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