Dear Prince Charming,
This blank where there should be a target. A bullseye waiting for the the swift sharp darts of my love. I had one set up a while back. My boyfriend kept running back and forth in front of it, and once in a while what was supposed to hit you, hit him instead — the straw man I set up because I needed something – anything to catch the overflowing dam of my affection.
Sometimes when I listen to music – the soundtrack of me and the ex’s sexiest moments, when we were a rock star couple, back from the party at 6 in the morning, continuing the sexy beats on our own turf, something starts to build inside me – the howl of the lost wolf. The single woman of a certain age. On the outside she looks like one of millions of attractive NYC woman past their 30s, still young at heart and wise in experience. On the inside she’s a wolf, breathing steam into the crisp forest air, her steady flowing gate eating up miles, searching for the only other wolf in the forest, now passing through shadow, now passing through a beam of sunlight filtering through the canopy. Every once in a while, she stops. She sits back on her haunches. And howls.
Love,
The Wolf
P.S. Sorry about the mixed fairly tale metaphors.
P.P.S. Deal with it.