Freedom looks good on you.
A kite on a windy day.
But not so free as once thought,
She's got a hold on you.
String all fisted in chubby grip
and she's shrieking laughter.
You swoop and swivel
and brush through static air,
darting into my personal space,
only to vanish.
A spectre of my imagination
would be less tragic than this, girl.