“It’s just a bit of fluff,” she says. “Some things are weighty,
others not so much.” I calculate the depth
of the furrow scarring her young face
as she chews upon a plastic straw,
heavy with regret.
“And sometimes I feel so old,” she says
with all the burden of her sixteen now gone
years, the cupcake with the candle
still untouched,
the napkin still between us; her hastily
scrawled words. The silence feels
companionable — almost,
at least to me.
She leans into the window. Outside the storm
explodes, hurling sheets and spears
against the dusty panes,
ragged tear tracks
seamed in black.
