I pushed the snack cart through the aisle of the cramped Boeing 747, It was my third year as a flight attendant and I had quickly realized not only did I dislike it, no I deplored it with each fiber of my being.

startled by the buzzing alarm
but not enough to get up
class in an hour
sleeps two more

I used to think that being alone
was unbearable,
but now that I’ve pushed almost
every single person I’ve ever held dear
away from me,
I really don’t think it’s that bad

There’s a white noise the airplane makes, as the sound of my wails soak my shirt, my hands, tightly put together, attempt to muffle it, yet only the dimly lit airplane would let me hear my voice. My tears would pour over the page, which my thumbs had already crumpled the sides of the letter he wrote to me.

think twice before you say, stargirl;
you may not be ready.
her name slurs from the lips of broken souls,
a question that tastes likes champagne in their mouths
a burning fire to warm their numb, blue fingers.

We sat on a quiet bench by the ocean, savouring the final blushes of sunshine on our faces before the sun dipped into the horizon, passing a joint back and forth in silence. When the joint burnt down to the filter, the havoc of the crowded downtown Victoria Harbour faded and I looked at the most beautiful scene in the world.

The clock strikes 8:17 as I am sitting on the cool stool at our local bar. The bartenders are busy with angry drunks who don’t want to go home. The tables are mostly empty except for old men that slowly drink their sorrows away. The news is playing on the TV in the background. Another missing child. “Stella Davis, thirteen years of age, 5ft 3 and sporting short brunette hair, last seen wearing a baby blue polo shirt and blue jeans” is what they said. The picture the reporters used for her missing person poster makes her look strikingly beautiful. She has now been missing for approximately three days.