In reality I'm skidding my shoes against asphalt road, stumbling down to a place I've made home.
A place where golden sunlight filters through willow trees and where my thoughts cut themselves up and rearrange themselves all under the same breath.
Any passerby would tell you, "that girl comes here alone", but I bring my own company. When I blink I see flashes of friends, laughing and generous and crafted from golden syrup and butter.
We carve our names into bridges and dive into lakes and dissolve under the sun. When parallel from the sky at a certain time in the afternoon, they turn transparent. Rooftops are my new dream.
With all my new friends, I'll be so far away from my inferiority that when I brag about it to the girl who always makes me feel alone, that girl won't be me.
My happiness doesn't grow in reality, but the ground is soft and at 5 o clock the universe turns to syrup. And when I melt I won't have a care in the world.