Her name was Cloudveil. She claimed to have been raised
in a sunless, flowerless cave. Her handwriting was worse
than a nervous first grader’s. While toweling off one night,
I caught her gulping my bathwater from cupped hands.
At first I thought, yuck! Then it struck me: this is love.
Mornings, she’d splash a little whiskey on her cornflakes.
She convinced me to swim in a chilly mountain lake, though
I hate both nature and being cold. “Come on! I’ve never had
a skinny-dipping regret,” she said. The first symptom was
that she couldn’t stop humming. After being awake five days
straight, she burned most of her clothes, sold her books
and stuffed animals. “I’ve moved to amend my life and reinvent
my sorry mind.” That’s a quote. Before she left, she grabbed
my hands, kissed their grubby knuckles one by one. Wherever
she roams, may she sip from cosmic reservoirs. May cheering,
applause, oohs, and aahs (never boos, explosions, or groans)
be the sound effects in her head, come rain or come shine.
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