a poem for my pointes

inktuition pointes

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.

This is for Day 7 of NaPoWriMo