Heart skipping like a jump rope team,
Brighter than a summer sun beam,
Stomach flipping like a gymnast,
Who knew you could fall so fast?
Bring it back to reality,
Surely this is just a fallacy?
Head spinning round like a tea cup,
I'm feeling star-struck.
I want to believe this is real,
Instead of denying how I feel,
Cheating myself out of a chance,
Will I ever get my first dance?
May it is way too soon
But it's hit like a typhoon
It's hit like a typhoon
Hit like a typhoon
Like a typhoon
Typhoon
Never showing myself feeling this way,
Wall growing ever higher day by day,
Can't believe he is still climbing,
My love needs a lot of priming,
Wanting to give him it all,
Yet so terrified of the fall
He really could be the one,
Homerun.
About the Creator
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson2 days ago in Fiction
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