and it was so nice.

I wanted to be glass. The most fragile souls are forgiven.

but I was a child. We laughed and played in your living room, building mighty castles of silken pillows,
and the calm herb smell of pot from your mother's room
caressed us with the dirty daylight.

your curtains were always open.
I long remember the way I pretended I was the moon, smiling at you through your dusty window.

and your kisses were always salty and tasted of potting soil, like cheap sodas from the station down the street.

but I am not a glass girl, and you can't forgive me anymore. the memories suffice for what was never there as we grew older.