I dreamt I was dancing with my dad back in the old garage - Ringo Starr bouncing off the walls, summer light shining in - and he was doing the same goofy dance he always did (the kind of dance where you shuffle around more than anything) and he picked me up and kissed me on the forehead.
Then it was with you, in a dark room with the door cracked - no music, one window - and your arms were wrapped around my shoulders (the kind of dance where you more waddle together than anything) and you leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.
There's something romantic about us dancing like that, but then again, there's something romantic in everything (the sky above gas stations at night, scruffy hair, the sound of sneakers hitting pavement).
I've known loss before (pens, old pictures, a father), and I know I have more to lose (hands, eyes, you).
So tell me about dinosaurs and I'll tell you about paintings, tell me things about love and I'll tell you things about grief.
Things could be better - I'm sure of it; I could be better - I'm sure of it.
(I am not sure of it)
YOU ARE READING
Not Quite A Woman
PoetryHalf diary, half something else. The feeling of being caught between two different worlds, and of hating men but wanting their attention. Hi. Pantoums, sestinas, a few freeform poems, and whatever else seems fun. New parts get shoved wherever seems...
