This isn't writing but honesty doesn't sound any better. I want to be fifteen again thinking about your driveway and having hope like summer. I always saw your house in the rain because that's how it was when I came here and it felt the most whole. I couldn't eat, I remember, because my dad had said something to me that day and I think I was obvious because I was fourteen and obvious. It was only after fourteen that I really started dreaming about you and never stopped. Except now that it's harder to dream like that. But I can see it: after a summer hurricane, all green and gray and humid and wet and lush, the kind of air you'd run your fingers over if you could, and beautiful, beautiful, alone. I wanted to curl up on your back patio naked and smoke a cigarette even though you probably wouldn't want to do anything like that. I want to fuck in your rickety single bed and find out what you're putting on your bedroom walls. Even now. Even though you fed me but I could never have fed you. I would have tried.
It's pathetic and it will not help. But at least it feels a little like the summer.
