missed opportunity
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Blond dancer boy,
How you move in Act I.
Your body concaves on itself,
Whenever the composer wills you to do so.
Blond dancer boy,
I left someone with hope for you.
There it is
The Door.
You know the one
You pass it every single day
This time, though
You stop and look
Just briefly
"Lucy,
Lucy,
No."
She whispers to her hands.
She cries to the company.
We stare,
curiously,
judgementally.
