My little dead sisters,
the wind thrashes about me
and scatters your sun faded ribbons.
A Love In Tokyo
dangles from a tree branch.
Pretty pastel drawings,
and giggle written post it notes,
pasted all over everything.

What is the value of laughter,
how can a memory be sold
for a moment of peace
that sneaks off, when you aren't looking,
and leaves behind
the melancholy remains
of all my little dead sisters.