The Manuscript

Now and then she re-reads the manuscript Of the entire torrid affair They compared their licenses He said "I'm not a donor but I'd give you my heart if you needed it." She rolled her eyes and said "you're a professional" He said 'No, just a Good Samaritan' He said that if the sex was half as good as the conversation was Soon they'd be pushing strollers But soon it was over. In the age of him she wished she was thirty And made coffee every morning in a French press Afterward she only ate kids' cereal And couldn't sleep unless it was in her mother's bed Then she dated boys who were her own age With dartboards on the backs of their doors She thought about how he said Since she was so wise beyond her years, Everything had been above board She wasn't sure. And the years passed like scenes of a show The professor said to write what you know Looking backwards might be the only way to move forward Then the actors were hitting their marks And the slow dance was alight with the sparks And the tears fell in synchronicity with the score And at last She knew what the agony had been for. The only thing that's left is the manuscript One last souvenir from my trip to your shores Now and then I re-read the manuscript But the story isn't mine anymore.