Feels..

Like I'm growing up.
But, still so angular.

Deeply Disturbing.

She tugs at your pink-sleeved shirt,
Runs her fingers through your floppy haired chest
She looks at you, into you
Longingly, Intently.

She gives, she gets.
But, oh she gives. She doesn't get.
She shudders, she cries
She hopes, and,
She tugs at your pink-sleeved shirt again.

She talks.
She makes peace.
She waits.
She withers. She wilts.
But, you are not hers. Oh, you are not hers.

And, then she stops
As, if by chance
At a passerby sign
And, she learns:
What is not yours, is not yours.
No matter which way you look at it.