floating in that acrid pool of nothingness, 

a feather kissed the tip of my nose and whispered softly over my face.

in that moment, decided. 

i watch the village of women who surround me each day, 

awash with a soft awe at their mossy eyes and woolen hands. 

i link arms with the girl i love most on a late night walk, 

running from the boy who asked me to give apart of myself.

one that she knows i covet, and i know she understands why.

glasses of rich, strong, sour liquids litter the tables we talk over.

they warm us to each other, they warm our cheeks and our brows,

and we blink in quiet mirth at the boy who's banging the glass behind our heads. 

we all know what he is, who he is. 

he doesnt know it himself, but he wants to be us. 

he wants the softness, the unity of womanhood, the sideway glances. 

an intense and deep understanding of the very basis of who we are, 

because of what we're not.

he doesnt get that, he wont ever.

he could, but its not who he is.