THE GIRL

(Eighty words and eighty years)

The girl inside me speaks and says,
I was young once,
I, who has aged beyond recognition.
whose skin had dried and creased,
whose blood runs slow and thick,
who spies a likely end
when none already existed.

And this girl talks of night’s breeze
against the skin,
of a bared lover's touch,
days without end,
so in my eyes’ glare
I hold fast her reflection,
not quite dancing but speaking my name.