Swishing through the halls
in that rustling taffeta dress,
its outer shell of red lace oversized
and awkwardly hitting the floor below,
I felt a perfect fit
in your old life.
Why did I spend so much
time in those musty trunk of yours
when my mirrored reflection never lied?
There was true meaning to off the shoulder
but in the most unromantic
way, and my size six foot
in your heeled, patent leathers.
Yet walking down the pine-slatted floors,
free from that outline on silvery glass,
I could add a decade, maybe two,
and skip past the gangly pubescence
that engulfed me then.
I could leap ahead in light years
and be as mature as you must have been.
No waiting. No take a number.
©1996, 2019 Karrie Bos