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Yes, the year clicks by, the second hand, second time.
You say, Everything is the same: Nothing is the same.
The pavement glitters with promise. I try hard to catch my stride
and while perhaps not today, tomorrow I decide I will be beautiful.
The old self-doubt is both a bore and a burden, worn out.
Tomorrow, love, you will see the real thing. A beauty rare and true.
Those French girls youíve loved ~ they will not hold a candle
to my hip-switch, the slow sashay of my walk, the open-rose of my
pout that suggests all it suggests. On that day youíll want
to lick the high arch of my foot and although
heads may turn on that day it is still nothing compared to when
I offer it all up and I let it all come down
that mixed blessing that I am,
and you will watch as I fall to my knees
in the old Notre Dame and God, love, Iíll know what you think.
To hell with self-doubt; Iíve had enough.