Everyone has, tucked away in the pocket of some old blue jeans, the one who got away. Whether she slipped through your fingers, or you left her one evening when the blinds were drawn and the dinner cold, you find her there still. She dances on your periphery for as long as you can see, this shadow like creature, her nymph like limbs. You find yourself counting on fingers the moments in which you are certain she was real.
With her the mornings stretched out like seas in every direction, white sheets and cups of coffee, afternoons in the park when no one expected you to be anywhere else. Doe like eyes, skin soft like a peach, you still wake up hearing her laugh like a ghost in the bedroom. But at the very least, this is something of her.