Sugarglass

It starts with a glow past the cranes and pockets full of schedules. Then the turnstile stamps a wrist, a coin buys back something we were told never to miss, a gilded horse goes nowhere beautifully, and the neon gets into the blood. In the hall of mirrors one face comes back alone; at the ball toss everyone misses and laughs anyway.

The last ride turns slowly above the lights, and in the morning the stamp is almost gone. Sugarglass is about letting joy in without pretending it will last: we were marked, not torn apart.