dirty hair

I doubt myself again

and us

I fear we’ll never recapture what we had

I fear we will

What then???

Either way all this longing will be for naught

Who am I to you?

What are you to me?

A shadow of a memory

a ghost of a touch

You were always the smart one

and I am just a girl 

with dirty hair

who hates her own handwriting.



      1. Pretty much the same, but I’m not complaining. Got all my shit done for today, so now I’m going out for a little “Writing With Wine”, at my favorite gator pond. I saw a big guy there last time (about 10ft.), and I’d love to try to get a few pics of him. What’s on your dance card for the day? Anything good?

      2. I bet you’d fit perfectly in that gators belly. Today I’m working until 4, a friend is grilling out so maybe I’ll do that. But I’m a bit grumpy so maybe I should just call it a day and not subject my friends to my sarcasm.

  1. “Who am I to you?

    What are you to me?

    A shadow of a memory

    a ghost of a touch”

    Brilliant stanzas Heidi! I like how you painted the juxtaposition of longing for what you have but perhaps knowing it was wrong all along.

  2. This is delicious–a biography in a few dozen words. And a mirror: It makes me think; I like the aesthetics of my handwriting, which I cultivated to look mature and confident at a time when I was not, yet I don’t like it any more than I like the me that was at that time. I mourn for that kid, but I can’t say that I like him. Or ever did, even then–especially not then–he doubted himself, too.

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