and no,
i am not falling in love in new york city,
but with it —
oh how my sighs mislead you so

i know what you’re thinking
“listen to the way she carries on
such silly sentimental stories”
it’s fiction, darlings –
mark my words

i write of what i know not
like a photographer blindly shooting at the wind
and praying for prisms in jet streams.

and “he” is never really mine
as “i” am rarely ever me
just a dark haired girl with bigger dreams
and a propensity for ruining pairs of tights
as though penciled into my weekly routine.

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