you asked.

Falling into nostalgia hit her like a tidal wave, all blackened with the stench of commuter traffic and miserable awakenings. She really shouldn't have been able to be happy at all, but her overly-aged soul had the habit of picking up right where it left off every single time. She had a thousand book marks holding a thousand sentences in her mind, all ripe for the taking, ready to sweep her off her feet once more. Maybe her thumb nails would eventually fall off, for all of her mindless biting had worn every single one of her cells down to the bone; or maybe she would publish a book and fall into the lap of the luxurious side of sadness, where people would blog about quotes she never said and set pictures of her photoshopped perfection as their secret wallpaper. She would be the four fingers up, pull down quick kind of mystery. She would be the sticky tongues, smelling of sin kind of memory. She would be the wide eyed, closed lips, burned in the back of your eyelids kind of inspiration. They would all remember how her legs had been so silky that one night, and how, underneath the cigarettes, she had tasted like cherries and childhood. A lot of people would fall into nostalgia with her, but when she ends up alone, nobody is going to claim in the slightest to be surprised.