Sweet Sixteen, a languid soak in a hot tub for a girl, but it’s gone as soon as the water turns tepid. It’s true, we never know what we have until it has passed, if not a bit cliché.
Lithe lines and fluid movements ache inside my weathered bones. The silent dance put to sleep. If only—don’t all regrets begin that way—I’d known what power and precision was held within when I was a girl cloying for the stage. Sidetracked by love, I sold my soul.
Yes, youth is wasted on the young. Death rattles through our ageless echoes, and He beckons bone to tooth.
Fiction Written for Micro Bookends:
A Micro Fiction Contest. Come write!
“A WEEKLY MICRO FICTION CONTEST WHERE WE PROVIDE THE FIRST AND LAST WORDS AND YOU PROVIDE THE REST.”