go sailor does this to everyone, doesn't it?

      she sits patiently on her bed, songs from her childhood playing on the dusty cassette deck, familiar words and key changes playing like memories of long drives and secret boyfriends. her fingers trace lines on the old covers, still thick with the scent of ghosts and bedtime stories, as the afternoon light provides a glimpse into the dances of particles floating in the air. just as it used to be, every sunny after-school afternoon, a great and secret show, just for her.
      the pillow is just as soft and lumpy as she remembers it. another dog is barking now, though, some new neighbor or another, barely audible over the scratch and crackle of old speakers. the posters are slightly faded, but not the sketches or the paintings, the memories of angst and dreams gone by, of trolls made of grasses and knights of clockwork, and sad little mage-girls who didn't want to be rescued, ones with horns and long hair the colour of ravens.
      she pauses to breathe in the stuffy air, eyes frozen on such a girl.
      falling back on her bed, she wonders if he's still around, or if she went to montana like she'd hoped. heavy-lidded eyes, still taking-in each individual notch so delicately drawn, start to moisten as another song comes on, one that plays without turning over the mixtape still stuck in the player.
      it wasn't that long ago, was it? all the little things to make her smile, still as fresh as the air outside, like the oranges he used to bring from wherever it was he went.
      she feels her forehead, wondering where it was her horns used to be, and cries into her pillow, just like she always used to.