She used to hold a novel. On the novel’s cover, there was a girl holding a novel. She used to fluctuate like the finger’s signature on the iPad at a cashier desk. She used to be more like a wave than solid self. She once tried to put the broken pieces of herself together into any recognizable shape but she wasn’t sure who she wanted to be so she ended up being no one. The sky is milky green today, like a mildew gutter. She is alone, a pale hue. Nothing carries her, but as she moves on lightly, in turn she carries one tear, a salty one, an accent, and a memory of standing before the camera to have her framed smile glued into the passport. |