must have been a thousand years old,
those scars on her hand
when she forgot her looks and
her dreams ran out the door
yet
that yellow still makes her dizzy
and her tongue still prefers what’s fizzy
maybe her soul hasn’t lost its spark
maybe she hasn’t lost her life
just yet
it appeared that there were
dead cranes on the side of the road
their graceful necks draped over the curb,
beautiful yet useless
much like our forgotten conversations
it all makes sense now, since I no
longer recognize my
laugh from the photographs
thrown all over the floor
tiptoe around them like a
doomed choreographed ballet,
beautiful yet useless
The Tape House 