the ghost girl who sits on my windowsil 

feeds the color of her eyes to a greedy sky. 

she’s the clouds i see first-thing bleary morning, 

the million wasted sunsets burning behind 

closed blinds. 

when it rains, i wonder where 

she goes. 

sometimes i imagine how she got there;

imagine her at 16, lovelorn in a broken dress, 

torn between jumping and turning back like a 

dithering, indecisive lover. 

i imagine that she sat there for 100 whole years, 

until she was as cold as the metal and 

as clear as the glass and as small as the whole 

wide world. 

when it fails her, i wonder where 

she’ll go. 

- A.L.