She would have ebony eyes,
raven ringlets,
and skin a cinnamon cream.
The taste of winter on her tongue
and the warmth of summer in between.
Carefree and independent
with a tight grip
on my hips.
(My waist would not expand like other mothers - she would whittle away the damage she made)
My mirror image
with just enough difference,
To build herself around.
Two in December
a sagitarian, just off the mark
but we would forgive her for that
our little bright in a month so dark.
she would have black eyes
like yours and mine
(but not like mine)
she would not see what I have
she would not know what I know.
A clean slate, rose tinted, fresh faced.
They were betrothed in the womb
and now I sit, with her friends
(although, she will not meet them for a lifetime or so)
red party cup in hand
empty as the barren shell
she once sat,
clasp my hands to my chest,
to stop my heart from beating out.
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