I never thought of myself as someone memorable—someone you'd regret losing or fear giving up. Not someone you'd be enchanted by. You wouldn’t think of me when you look at art. Not when you listen to a song, study a painting, or stumble across a line of poetry. Perhaps you might mention me while telling your story someday. But that’s as far as it would go. Just a girl you once knew.
My existence is a quiet park you pass through on a lazy afternoon. Just another place you wandered by, just another place you left behind.












