And she’s gone, and at night, lights shine and spread hope and joy into the air and it floats into the window of her room.
At night my thoughts float through the air and there’s not light and there’s no hope because she has skyscrapers and busy streets and art in everything she sees.
And I have my bed and my small school and my notes in my phone for art. 
She is an olive and I’m not even food. 
I’m something like a shoe or something else random.