It’s like looking in on a Perfect scene from a Mile away. The colors on her skin From that sunset, Make her look sixteen again. It’s the ripped, blue jeans, The same tatty shoes, Standing at my front door, Looking up at a sky I used to know; Roaming a town I used to own.
Dear Diary, I like to think I would be missed. If only by the spider I rescued from under the bin; If only by the puppy at the bus stop That stopped chewing on its lead To come say hello; If only by my characters Who wouldn’t know how their story ends.