Lately, I keep circling this phrase in my head: when words become memory as I write. It’s not something I set out to do, but sometimes the act of writing feels like a quiet folding of the present into something I’ll only half-remember later. Today, a line came out of nowhere and landed in my notebook before I knew what it meant. I wrote: “my hands still smell like last summer’s peaches.” I don’t even buy peaches that often. Maybe once or twice, sticky juice on my knuckles, but the line felt truer than the memory.
It’s funny how a sentence like that can slip in sideways. I was just sitting there, sipping tea, trying to make sense of a half-draft about something else entirely. Then bam, my hands are covered in imaginary peach fuzz. Sometimes I think my queerness makes room for these moments—a softness that isn’t about being fragile, but about being open to the weird and honest parts of myself. The little details I’d normally skip over in conversation, but let spill into the page. I can’t always tell if it’s nostalgia or just the way my mind likes to color outside the lines.
I notice how my body reacts before my head catches up. A small flutter in my chest, like the line’s tugging me gently somewhere new. It’s not a big revelation, just a tiny nudge reminding me that writing is as much about feeling as it is about making sense. Sometimes the words are just the way I keep track of myself as I move through the world—Black, queer, soft around the edges, a little bit hungry for something sweet.
Anyway, the draft is still a mess. But the line stays with me, peach-stained and stubborn. I think that’s enough for today.