Fledgling.

I’d like to imagine
I can still feel the sting

of the day she let go;
clipped my wings with a word and said, Fly.

I’d like to imagine
I can wax lyrical and triumphant

one more night;

Throw back my wild hair as I
rise above the music

I’m destined to face:
tiny little notes of fleeting hope.

But, between these moments
of glittering defiance and lackluster heart

is a gossamer thread that
aches, and sings that  

I am young,
I am foolish,

and I am alone.

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