To Me, At Least

I look in the mirror,
a yellow chunky belt,
red ankle boots,
jeans miniskirt,
black and white striped leggings,
and a crazy shirt,
topped with a corduroy
messenger hat.
The chunky belt, it was my sisters.
But she died,
3 years ago,
without even a whisper.
Now it's my turn,
to add her to my heart.
She shared everything with me.
She bought that yellow belt in
San Fransisco,
in Ghiradelli Square.
Where all the stalls
had her reflection
in the sky.
Because of the mirrors.
She was larger than life,
to me, at least.
Her steel-toed boots
clanked on the cement,
and her safety pin earrings
clanked against the sterling
stars that she had attached
to them.
She lived her life through
her flair,
and through fashion
and clothes.
But it seemed that
the safety pins were the only
things holding her life together,
and they weren't enough.
She died a year after
buying the belt.
Now it's mine,
matched with the safety pins
with the stars attached.
Just because she's dead,
it doesn't mean she's gone.
Because she was my star.
Just because she's dead,
it doesn't mean she's gone.
To me, at least.