by Erica Burdett

            Do you remember the first time I lost her? By the white columns and the spotlights that brought the crowds to the shows? I said, “I'd die to work here.” She said, “I'd live to work here.” Then she was gone.

            Her hair was so black that day. And just long enough. And just shiny enough. And just wavy enough. She saw a friend from the city – someone that reads the same books and watches the same movies. Then she was gone.

            You were there. I needed you. You were there, but I wanted her. And she was gone.

            She was the first girl. She hated the cigarette smoke. I wanted to breathe it into her lungs. I wanted her to taste me. But she was gone.

            Have I told you how many times I've lost her since? How many times in the wings? How many times with her arms around a poet? How many times she spun on her heel and was gone?

            She kissed my hair once. But then she was gone.