you see, this is the hat in which my arms are lithe, and always reaching.
this is the hat in which my skin is not bumpy and tired from the winter.
this is the hat in which my skin is not bumpy and tired from the winter.
this is the hat in which I do not sleep until noon.
this is the hat in which I do not feel like my skin is too small for me.
in which I see a prettier shape.
this is the hat of dreams
this is the hat from under which I will bat eyelashes that don't clump
at the man without a motive.
this is the had that will walk me over cobblestone streets
while I say everything that must be said.
this is the hat that will cover the hair that was too busy living to have slept the night before
to have been curled this morning.
this is the hat that will find the words, and give them the courage to fly their freckled beauty.
this is the hat that will break the silence.
but herein lies the problem;
it is just a hat.
and I am the one that must chase the dreams.
but really, the hat couldn't hurt.
