It’s gone (we’ll find it)

So long to nursery rhymes and (I miss you)

She wakes up forgetting.

It’s only once but she’s a little scared and tries to peel off bits of Scranton that stuck with her longer than they should have (you can’t keep me). She sifts through old clothes and spends a weekend in her pyjamas fingers gliding over photographs, almost calling home three times.

She sits on her couch pulling her knees to her chin, face relaxing when she feels a burst excitement (this is my life) and she hugs herself a little tighter. Her clock radio buzzes in her ears and it’s still dark but I’m ready for this and she lets herself grab yoghurt at lunch, stirring it slowly. Bustling crowds and a hum in her ears (prove them wrong) and she throws it in the trash, brushing her hands on her coat and she can’t quite regret it.

Sometimes there are packages in the mail, dusty photos or old clothes that throb in the back of her head (this means nothing) but don’t push hard enough to break anything.

Distracted in class, she shades the outline of her own hands and remembers a night when they when they let him go (this is the past not hurting me).

***

Early mornings and frosted breath is repetition and she can’t quite convince her neighbour that someone could get a phone in the ceiling and she can see past Pam turning into something childish that she can’t quite hide behind.

Evolving stretches in her mind and she flips a painting upside down at work (guilt is easier when it’s wrong) and rubs her fingernails uneasily, nobody smiles at her. One-bedroom is kind of cold and helpless and this is just a different island.

Going in every night just reminds her of what she doesn't have so she leans against the brick wall of her building and wonders why she can’t just let herself be happy. (It’s everything she wanted)

The nights are warm and peaceful and oh so empty.