Twirling

I miss the days of

flashes of white teeth.

Of red lips like cherries -

inferring nothing.

Meaningless brushes of skin.

I miss getting goosebumps over the idea

of first snow...

Not being judged for letting the wind

blow my mind away.

I miss dancing

and not caring about the eyes

set upon my twirling form.

Twirling with the leaves of autumn;

the rays of summer;

the skips of spring, the steam of winter.

I miss how things were,

before I realised the truth that stole the magic.

Smuggled it away like the ticking

of the clock. Fused and ready.

I miss being enough;

don't you?