there is no prince for her. she will not wait
for another half-hearted heart to make hers whole.
love-stale eyes rest on the edge of the yellowing page
and she smiles at this story, her favorite.
the little mermaid found joy through her pain,
danced through the wispy clouds,
the swirling winds, and rose with the sun,
beyond the pangs of love.
can she do the same?

wondering, wandering. rubber peels from her soles in flakes
as she skips pebbles aimlessly across the black concrete.
she pauses at the fading crosswalk
and watches the sun hang in the still-blue sky
drooping low, its crest white-hot,
scorching the clouds. it paints them rose pink, lavender blue,
illuminates the edge of the ascendant moon in gold.
the usually mild autumn wind nips her cheek playfully,
urging her along.

the tap of her feet on the pavement is airy and light.
she hums to herself tunes she’s forgotten how to play
on the chipped piano in their moth-rich living room.
a breathless joy, an ember,
sparks in her ribcage.
she has learned the melodies
running through the rain-softened soil
bouncing beneath her heels,
the dance of the city lights in the night,
the symphony of birdsong heralding the waking sun,
the kiss of morning dew on the emerald grass.