Eyes closed, lips parted,she dances with an invisible partner—a suitor dripping with vertigoteaches the young thing to two-step,his hands holding her steadyuntil the air around her starts to sizzleand she collapses.The smelling salts smolder,her body made limp by somnolent visionswrithing just beyond the horizon,her appetite unsatiated by anything elseexcept dreams of tomorrow.Tomorrow you’ll be older than you used to beand life is meant for living out in the openwithout those hands, once a comfort,resting lightly upon your back,daring you to fall.Her body collects assorted fingerprintsfrom sternal rubs to wake the dead,her eyes glazed from another assault to her dignity,pleading movements begging the young girlto see the possibilities in upward motion.Her mind’s eye trades her hospital gown for a ballgown,as nightmares of stasis rouse herfrom her stuporous state on the floor,and, faced with the epoch of tomorrow,she gingerly lifts herself up from the floorand, slowly but surely,begins to find her footing.(it’s called growing up, love)