Last night I dreamed that I washed my hair with white finger nail polish. It was not the cheap, thick kind that leaves globs on the ends of nails like too many coats of liquid paper. It was smooth, eggshell white that was maybe a little too thin and streaked through my hair like opaque water without leaving behind its color. I don't remember why I washed my hair with fingernail polish. There were other things too, in the dream. There was a locker room that turned into a labyrinth and a frantic race to find my clothes before my towel shrank too small to cover those vital areas. But all I really remember is the streaks of white finger nail polish streaking through fine hair and spinning down the drain.

Ivy disliked iced coffee, frappuccinos, and coffee contaminated with milk and sugar. She loathed people who walked, drove, or acted slowly. She hated pandas, cats, and pitbulls. She bemoaned radical conservatives, radical liberals, and politics in general. She proudly held few opinions and left this world silent as she came.

Sing, my harp. Sing out

the sunshine of my soul.

Dance, oh dance fair fae

to the low, sweet melodic

life draining from my fingers.

He strayed far from home,

towards life's less mundane moments,

eyes cast to his feet,

blind to his awful fate,

and was burned up in the sun.

Girl in my garden,

will you own your lovely voice?

Tap your pale, bare feet?

Coax me towards your fairy ring.

I long for Van Winkle's peace.

On her low night stand,

she keeps a bowl of sunshine

out of which she drinks deeply

to preserve her golden hair

as her soul decays.