Fast Moving Cars.

It used to be pink skirts with dogs on them and black and white shoes. It was a land not so far from here where apple trees were filled with dangling feet and boys who walked girls to doors. Slow moving cars drifted down well-lit streets where intentions were pure and futures read out like crayon filled picture books.

It’s become a bit darker now and the lights have been dimmed and the cars move faster and then stop in back allies or in closed garages. Girls walk from car door to front with empty hand and broken hearts. Flickering love stories play out on big white screens telling stories that can never be.

And now there is a boy in a field or on a rooftop or in a window filled room looking at the stars and wondering where those pink skirts have gone. He wishes that the cars would slow down and that some girl somewhere would let him hold her hand while he walked her to the front door.

And there is a girl who looks a lot like a princess and she is sitting on the steps of her home waiting for the slow moving car to pull up and open the door for her. She sighs and touches her hands together and thinks of how nice it would be for a boy to come along and stitch the fabric shards of her heart back together.