The clouds, they

Whip my cheeks 

With their surprising iciness

Turning them raw and rosy.

My nose is running,

But that sickeningly pleasant

They say that women don’t need men, and I believe that to be true. We don’t need men. But, by whatever powers may exist, does my young heart lie awake late at night and long to feel what it has never felt.

Somewhere, there is this little dock stretching out over a lake, where the clouds swim in the golden ripples of the rock I have skipped across its surface.