The ballet of my little girl dreams
was pink and soft and elastic.
The ballet of my little girl dreams
was idyllic, real and lasting.
The ballet of my grown-up dreams
is harsh and cruel and tight.
The ballet of my grown-up dreams
is what will never become might.
You live in a box of 70s plastic blue,
a doting reminder of
what I quickly outgrew.
Opened, it exudes a scent of resin
that transports me back
to being eleven.
One touch of your fragrant satin
and I’m back on stage in
a pirouetting pattern.
Your robust pointes are carefully sewn,
your ribbons a symbol of our tie.
To you my love I’ve always shown.
From that first day you were moulded to me.
You are singularly mine, today,
as I was back then: size three.
The day we met, I became whole.
I wept when ballet lessons stopped.
Only the smell of you, now, helps console.
inktuition 