Everything here is wrong.
Meaning, this is not who she is,
now at least,
now that the flower in between her fingers
has wilted into crusty dust, her world desaturated
as the color faded from her coat, until she finally
gave it away, replacing it with a hoodie of cotton,
the fabric stretchy and soft,
the hood only holding her hair
which she cut it in one swoop,
the fake blond locks forever gone
until used for someone else.
Ah yes, she is not the same, not anymore,
but three years pass us quickly,
and you’re not quite right either.