i consider plucking a string of leaves,
keeping them in a fishbowl above my desk.
a year ago, i stitched every inch of road
into a distinct memory, now
miles and miles slip through my fingers like water
and i watch them pool, unblinking.
i drown the bowl in honey,
watch the stems buckle against the glass
paper skin wrinkling with too much sweetness.
last summer my eyes were clear
burning endlessly with daydreams
when the sun started setting during my classes,
i blinked and i could only see clouds.
the leaves begin to brown, still sinking
and i miss a girl who isn’t here anymore,
miss a girl who used to grow flowers from dust.
i don’t recognize her in the mirror
but now i’ve plucked all of her leaves
and the last of her swims in fragments
at the bottom of my fishbowl.