hanging on a word
the magic
imperfections
of things finally coming
together
(like tulle
on a ballerina's skirt)
they make me reminisce.
an invitation,
a lark.
the thought of
going to see you
impedes my
impediment
to success, but
i press onward anyway.
eight weeks out
and i still love you
more than
nothing
on the walls.
i'm a child, simply,
and i wonder
what you would say
when you see
me dance.
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