"touch the spindle."
she said.
all the while i was thinking
about that boy in the woods
who sang to me,
singing that he's known me
and loved me at once the way he did
once... but it
was all a dream.
he can't only dream about me
because i am real.
and by real i mean imperfect,
built for a real world and i've
learned to breathe fire since the day
my own dream died.

"touch the spindle, i say."
she demanded.
if i prick my finger
and fall into deep sleep,
maybe i'll dream again,
and love him then...

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