Evie

the clouds draped her 

city like a rag half-screwed

over a mason jar

the air hugged the 64th story 

balcony and it smelled 

like falling asleep.

she filled this place 

with ashtrays,

pashmina,

Hermes scarves, 

fluffy Russian hats

 hung dissatisfied on the coat rack 

just like her mother before her

and her mother’s mother

 before. the day 

was tickling her

 sides for a year.

her heart was tiny, 

a shriveled thing,

but she wept as she kissed 

me goodbye