You've gotten slutty, haven't you? You used to be clothed and fluid; draped in silkened skirts you were once incandescent. Now, I can see your pale skin and it looks blotchy, hopelessly clogged from the pores of England to the layers of Oregon. Your limbs are like bleached noodles and, oh, how I wish you would cover up! But you don't, and the days of lovely symmetrical parenthesis and the subtle sensuality of the semi-colon have thus vanished.
Your used now, battered, cheapened so now only your nakedness, the lines of your bones, are the only thing I see when I trace you. Do you not remember the days of flowing silk? How I could slip you on and feel like magic was innate and palpable?
It hurts to see, but worse yet, to hear. The music of the words is now a distant moan that keeps me up well past two in the morning, and the dog is uneasy with the sound. I lose you in traffic, the sirens are paralleled to the movements of intonation, that once made Mozart himself weep.
Kids can't even, in their cornered innocence, make you beautiful with their pen. They can not swirl you, stroke you, the way their bending wrists once could. Now, they beat you with their fingertips, use devices to decode your meanings.
You are in every one's beds. You slink up from the ground with vacant eyes, a shadow of the brilliant figure you once were. I fear I have lost my desire to read you, as you are now, sold into a screen.
But there is hope. I think, there is hope. For you are frozen in the spines of leather, and I look for you, keep looking for your pristine, purest state, out there, in the forgotten shops hidden in the earth's lonely crevices. And, I do wonder, if your evolution is the best part of you. For I fear that no change is far worse than any kind of progression. And you are everywhere, in the throats and monitors of billions, and I secretly await how I will see you next, you fickle, fickle girl.
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