"It's funny", she said, "how your image of someone can be so distorted".

I am 13 again, walking through the halls of my life, peering through closed doors...

How strange that I am still here, writing about you, though no longer in iambic pentameter.

Perhaps I'll write a Sonnet....perhaps not.

I am 13 again, looking at your back, wondering why I feel so foreign in your world....

Realizing that my tacit appreciation for you is not enough for me.

I'll find you again when I'm 35.....and maybe, if life will allow it, we will do the same dance again...only better.