A 1960's baby blue thunderbird convertible parked on a rooftop in southern California. A trendy boy in light denim smoking a cigarette. A small girl in ruffled peach pretending to be a superhero. They were so very similar.
She was a superhero in peach. She would wear my helmet. She thought she was invincible. Anything that came her way, she took on. To her, life was a game. She had these bony knees that she would bang against each other as she sat on the roof. White fur on the wood floor, I wish she felt more at home. She lives here, but her mind is always on the road; Living in the next place before her physical body gets there. Vanilla skin, my restless child.
Today she came back with flowers in her hair. California is beautiful today, the sun hits her morning skin like a song in the penthouse. I love nothing more than those Sunday mornings where I could watch her sleep in, body rising and falling. Breathing in threes. The sun wakes me so I like to draw the curtains, but she can't keep warm without it's invasive color.