Storytelling

When I was a girl you saw my skinny arms and short skirts and pointy boots. I grew up and I thought if I just, if I only, if I could. But there were obstacles an icicles and stories to be told and when I dreamed of you, I couldn’t see your face. Suddenly the list was there with three ideas I couldn’t shake. Slow dancing in your arms. Weekends away. Trusting you’d take care of me. Blurry and aching, I stumbled through the mist of that yesterday, those years, what had never materialized. Sentences spilled forth, swirling from my head to pages through oceans and under pillows.  Quiet, quiet. Walk.  There are blue eyes I open to. They spotted, they saw, they believe in me. Clearly I breathe, easily (even in other pain). Tomorrow is a woman discovered.

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