The City of our apartment,
had known me as a flower child
of professional wall drawings
and candied curls.

As the world became flatter,
my obsession with china dolls
grew in time to dim the summer haze,
and dancing,
to music only I could hear,
had gone out of style.

A hollow misunderstanding
of smiles visible in photographs
taken by a hand-holder
whose warmth lingers on the subway
I had gotten off two stops earlier.

And I pass familiar strangers
I'm sure have shown up at a family reunion
or two;

They'll give me a look
only children can see,

“You'll never grow up on your own.”
But I think
I already have.