Wishing Well

-->

These days I sit with memories I can barely remember.  I lay awake at night, trying to examine the blurred snapshots for more than has yet to meet my mind’s eye.  And sometimes I hear a song that recalls a feeling that only the butterflies that sleep in my stomach remember.  And I swear they awoke and fluttered for you when we danced – when you took my hand (or did I take yours?).   And I think you made me happy.  And I wonder about our first kiss that I don’t remember.  Was it hard-pressed and desperate? Was it sad but almost maybe lovely? Was it was wet and pretty with hope?  The kiss we shared in the story my mind has written between the remembered pages of that quick, short past was like stealing someone else’s penny from a wishing well.  We had both been someone’s wish once.