the child is grown, the dream is gone
So there's this girl (shut up, Hunter). And there's something about her.
It's like she's part of me, like she's my arm or my leg or my ear. She's always just there, sometimes sadly under-appreciated until that moment when needed most. And when that moment comes, she does her part with aplomb.
And there's this other girl, the one who I can't have. Well maybe, but probably not. She's part of the past, now, and we've gone our separate ways in every way possible. She's pretty-or at least she was, that last night I caught a glimpse of her-and she has a grace that the world's dance-elite would kill for. She likes to wear long prairie skirts and twirl until she gets dizzy. And I think I miss her.
And I know I miss my left hand. It fell between the couch cushions two weeks ago and hasn't been heard from since. (Lapsus linguae, mea culpa.)
It's like she's part of me, like she's my arm or my leg or my ear. She's always just there, sometimes sadly under-appreciated until that moment when needed most. And when that moment comes, she does her part with aplomb.
And there's this other girl, the one who I can't have. Well maybe, but probably not. She's part of the past, now, and we've gone our separate ways in every way possible. She's pretty-or at least she was, that last night I caught a glimpse of her-and she has a grace that the world's dance-elite would kill for. She likes to wear long prairie skirts and twirl until she gets dizzy. And I think I miss her.
And I know I miss my left hand. It fell between the couch cushions two weeks ago and hasn't been heard from since. (Lapsus linguae, mea culpa.)