I remember days of pain, disillusionment with you
when all I wanted to do was curl-up and die
at seventeen. Seventeen! When I was still ironing
curls from my hair, trying to fit in, wanting to be loved.
Those days I wrote your name and mine in elaborate curl-
liques of idealism, romantic novellete, rosy colored glass
but everything turned upside down, burnt in flaming words
curling like black, greasy smoke, staining the air with stench.
I sigh at the girl. At the boy. At the passionate puppy angst.
Blessed to have lived to see love uncurl like a fiddlehead fern.