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Not Yet
by Dallas Woodburn

 

I am a child, overwhelmed, out of place
in my trying-too-hard pointy shoes and awkward innocence.
Clutching the wine-glass stem,
swirling the crimson liquid, yearning for sophistication

in my trying-too-hard pointy shoes and awkward innocence.
You are four years older. Back in high school
swirling the crimson liquid, yearning for sophistication
it seemed like a wide chasm yawned between us but

You are four years older. Back in high school
I was a little girl who looked upon you with big adoration eyes
it seemed like a wide chasm yawned between us but
as we’ve grown older the distance has gradually shrank and shrank and

I was a little girl who looked upon you with big adoration eyes
until I returned home from college for winter break and found
as we’ve grown older the distance has gradually shrank and shrank and
it was merely a thin trace of a crack that I stepped across, unblinking.

Until I returned home from college for winter break and found
the earth beneath us shifts, splits open, the crack expands. Four years older.
It was merely a thin trace of a crack that I stepped across, unblinking
but I’m still eating dorm food and spending Saturday nights at keg parties.

The earth beneath us shifts, splits open, the crack expands. Four years older.
You’ve moved across the country to graduate school, responsibilities, The Real World,
but I’m still eating dorm food and spending Saturday nights at keg parties.
I’m still trying to figure out what to do with my life.

You’ve moved across the country to graduate school, responsibilities, The Real World,
thick blue carpet and green bean casseroles and wine glasses on coasters.
I’m still trying to figure out what to do with my life.
Is that what you want? Because we both know it’s not something I can give,

thick blue carpet and green bean casseroles and wine glasses on coasters.
Not yet.
Is that what you want? Because we both know it’s not something I can give.
You place your hand on my knee and gently squeeze.

Not yet.
I feel my pointy-toed shoes, perched on the brink of the cliff
You place your hand on my knee and gently squeeze.
I take a deep breath and don’t look down.

I feel my pointy-toed shoes, perched on the brink of the cliff
I am a child, overwhelmed, out of place
I take a deep breath and don’t look down.
Clutching the wine-glass stem.