She was a girl I kissed one night and she was a girl I wish I could have kissed everyday. She was a cliché, an archetype, she radiated inspiration with no half-life. A muse who gave me a mix tape. I thought about her when I drank, thought about how she didn’t drink. Then I would think about how she gave up sobriety and drank with me. There was magic in that night, I was magic, she was a pixie with the right haircut. Hair that I pulled to make her smile in a way that showed she was of this earth, with earthly desires—a point of attack. I kissed her that night, but didn’t make it to the next day, the next morning, or even midnight. I made a moment though. A moment in her life, something for her to remember and something for her to regret. Her lips didn’t belong to anyone else, but her kisses did. They weren’t for me, but for a guy whose style was more current than classic. A guy who didn’t like questions. He didn’t like questions. All she was, was a question. I didn’t understand the relationship nor did I respect it. I was on a mission to make the universe I was in one in where we had kiss. A universe where I had tried to suffer her emissions without a pen in my hand and enjoy the present instead of trying to turn it into something for people to read—to live art rather than produce it. I couldn’t manage though.