Gloom. Bathos. I don’t want to be
that girl. I remember when

being that girl
meant flying a kite in Central Park.

Winking at a department store mannequin.
Seeing it wink back.

Biting a white glove. I let go
of all the strings

I’m holding. The wind died
hours ago. I wave my empty hands

through still warm air.
Another season blurs

its edges into the next.
I don’t drown.