Okay, this is a story
It just trails off at the end
Without any great denouement
No glorious coda
Just a slump backwards and a sigh
A woman alone with her dimming fantasies.
It all started
One hundred plus years ago, believe it or not
There was a girl
And out of fucking nowhere she dreams about love
She is twelve years old
And although in time she reads some books
That touch upon her sensibilities
She meets not one person in all the years that follow
Who shares her dream
Who complements her need
Not one fucking person.
And then she gets old
And her ankles hurt
And her fantasies wear out and can’t be darned
So she says.