Russian doll

The neon lights blinded me once. I was a Russian doll, tossed in a play I didn’t know the script for. I danced when I should have stood still. I ran at red traffic, frozen at the green. Now, I’m not dazzled. I don’t even flinch at the black-clad figure. I wrestle novelty with the lazy grin of a yawning yakuza. By dawn, the match is even. I am fawned over, my groupie love squealing with delight. My beacon of neon lights settles softly on halogen. I remember the fateful night I met you. I hated you. I adored you. I don’t remember you. Your memory— whitewashed by the rain of life’s relentless trajectories.