She's nothing but ripples - so tight - you can't help but strip search her with your eyes. She worries about her sanity, but you assure her she's fine - something so fine, that you can't let go. I wouldn't show her off here, if I were him. I wouldn't bite my lip and curse (angelic style) when your sunglasses hide the whites of your eyes. But what do I know, right? I'm just a woman (slightly north of girlhood) who used to be praised for her wit as well as her piercing eyes - like her, I wore a disguise. I wore a mask, from hairline to toe (curl) from belly up to baby get down. I'm just a has been (never was) silent like movie stars crystallized on big screens - those old Swedish talkies that I took you to.

One morning, maybe a while from now, she'll wake up with the sun bathing her (kitten with her tummy full of milk) green eyes sparkling like diamonds in this lovely light - and someone will be there: maybe sleeping like a rock next to her or just down the hall, making some annoying shuffle of sound, and she'll realize that it was tonight - on this night when she was so tight with the in crowd that she could have left it all behind and become a legend - a walking, talking, innuendo that girls would dream of being for years to come.

She could have gone to the desert like she dreamed of; worn turquoise love around her sleeves for all to see - married that dark haired stranger who never cared to learn her name (because his nickname for her was just too sweet, and fit so well.)

Word of her would have spread like wildfire across the plains, all the way up to her old doorstep where it rained every day and even her mother would hear whispers of it. That girl who rippled across the stage; screaming her lines for all to see. Deaf, and hoarse when it was all over. Branded. Like Marlon Brando. Or maybe Jonathan Brandis (we both cried when he hung himself in east L.A.) If she left now she would became memorable (unforgetable) but instead she smiles; dimples ripple across her cheeks (those apple pie, Shirley Temple locks) and yes, men will dream of her tonight - honey suckle skin so creamy that she melts between (wherever you want to put her) she knows the game well enough already; she'll be molded like putty until she can't breathe for the shape she's in (she thinks she's on the fast track, and she's ready to win...) but, she's just a ripple.