w a n d e r l u s t

There is nothing more

wanderlust than a single

woman in her prime.

While her younger sisters on her third,

and her niece says I do before she does.

The man of her dreams never leaves her pillow.

She blows out another candle. And another candle.

And another..

On the cake she probably baked herself.

The hands that congratulate her are sometimes her own.

Folk bet their bottom dollar on the sole pity she lives the least,

And puppy-eyed her identity year round on the days the banks were closed.

As if they know all about her thoughts on the days spent in-between,

based off the narrative they wrote about her.

Who knew there were so many writers that didn’t actually write.

Oh, but the secret is reveled well within her.

As wild as when the clouds come together.

Often times, the rain that is felt on our shoulders,

is where the women that frolic

in the shadows are.