She holds her head in her handbecause these days,
her neck hangs heavy with the weight of her world.
She's doing her best to ignore
the slow rhythm of their bodies moving in time with the music.
Its taking everything inside of her to divert her eyes
from the foxtrot,
the waltz,
and the tango,
as one young lover is framed in the arms of another.
And the personal space closing between them
becomes far too personal for her to bear.
So many things she wishes she could change
about him, and the way he loves her.
She'd tell him this if she wasnt sure
that it could never come out the way she planned.
Her's was a wordy kind of love.
And so, with her head in her hands,
and her heart to the ground,
she sits, wondering if she'll ever find the words to say
after all of this time,
...you have meant everything to me....
(How sure she'd become that he would never think of her that way.)
Funny how love is limited by syllables, and,
funny, how her syllables are limited by love.