I always thought I'd see you
blazing off into the sunset.
Money, men, and dust-smoke 
billowing up in your trail.

Golden tressels flailing in
your shadow, 
I'd watch you go
and hope for a letter to follow.

You'd write to me,
dated postcards depicting
your journeys, and the boys 
who chased you,
while you chased 
good-tasting
adventure.

That was long ago.

I was just a child
when I loved you.
When I offered up my 
sisterhood for days
of barbie doll play
and coloring inside the lines.

It was trying times,
when my magentas
fell in place of soft greens,
and squeaked slightly by
the black ink-stained barricades
that defined you.

Eventually,
we grew out of that.
We traded sunshine days
of make believe 
for Guess jeans and makeup.
We wrote notes in different
schools, and ate bags of Doritos
way past curfew, because we could.

Eventually,
I became the wild girl
I was destined to be,
while you were the one
to play make believe.
Prim, and proper in your
female role, you let me go.

In the end, I was the one
who tore up blacktop.
I charred tires to pavement,
and dove nose first to follow the sun.
You chose meals, diapers and dishes.
I chose dreams, adventure and wishes.

Then, years fell by the wayside.
Strange, how I always thought 
it'd be you that tried everything,
just for the sake of trying.

Did I ever send you postcards?

Quiet, appearing aloof,
white-washed eyes
strict on his screen,
he watches her fabric
wrinkle as she moves.
Textiles of lace and denim
ink under his skin
as he listens to her breathing.
Imaginary textings disguise
his wantings to gently caress
her flesh.
She laughs in conversation,
while in his nighttime imagination,
she is laughing with him,
on his lap, in his car, on his bed.
And all is right in the world,
with this girl, this queen,
his cowardly daydream.