There was a girl, an amalgam of any other group of little girls. Her image remains small and tender and untouched, locked in a treasure box, with buttons and bows and ribbons for her hair.
I see her looking back at me from a photograph, her face still soft and innocent.
Time cannot be measured between the last days of innocence and the insinuation of adulthood.
Nor can anyone explain or remember where the shortest moments of their life, their childhood, vanished, or when they ceased to believe in magic.
Over the rainbow
I am
fOIS
I am
fOIS
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