Hasty brings a poem of time having its way.



She sat wondering what he saw in her
She wasn’t the colorful person anymore
The one that laughed louder than most
Danced until her legs gave way to gravity
She wasn’t the girl with the goth hair
Or the one wearing the fishnets and heels
She wasn’t that girl anymore
She was too old, too wrinkled, too tired
She could feel the air trying to kill her
It wanting to turn her into dust, bury her
She didn’t have manikin smooth skin
And she can’t sneeze or she will pee
There are a million other girls, younger
Beautiful skin, pretty colors, funky hair
Tattoos, piercings, badass attitudes
All riding on the backs of motorcycles
While she sits watching in her minivan

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