her head hit her shoulder
five whole years ago now.
god.
was it really that long?
was she really that daft?
the sliding doors passed
and now she stands in the middle of a crowd
dancing slow and sad
the men and the women move in pairs
some plain
some complex
stops her from asking
stops her from stroking
the cheek of a near stranger
backstage and alone like she dreamed
he calls her lovely
she tells her a story
unnecessarily because she was there
(she forgot, it happens a lot.)
is this what it means to be strong?
is this what it is to be wrong?
that ship has sailed,
consistently pale
walking home alone
hoping
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