I miss that girl, still...the one with the better body...the one who spent her money on books and papers and pens...I miss her thrift store dresses and silver-free braids and proper pauper frugality...the way she lugged laundry six blocks in a suitcase on wheels to flirt with boys propped on shaky machines...the way she hopped buses for fun, just to see where they went...donned an accent and called herself Tia...wore olive drab jackets, black tights and flats...cried like hell when it came time for healing...she loved living alone and tables for one and solo matine� choosing...struggle and sacrifice pumped-up her pride...she buffed badges of internal bruising...her fingers were ink-stained and gripped pens too tightly...her legs were strong-muscled from thrashing sheets nightly...dreams broke her breathing...fear stripped her heart...but I miss that girl, I still miss that girl...and I'm sad we've grown apart. 2005-07-06