18.

For Dramaqueen.

Sweetsour, tart on her tongue. Like memories long gone, good riddance, suddenly remembered like a half-forgotten dream. The lingering of candlesmoke, the scent of old perfume, a lipstick smudge on tissue paper.

Skittles. The word smiles back at her like a childhood drawing. Crayoncoloured, paintsmudged. Lying warm in her hands, before she lets it slip, like her innocence, like a broken promise, through her fingers.

Bright bursts of colour, she watches them dance across the street.