History, for the unwary, tends to repeat itself, and at this
late date, I wish it would, to go back, pick up the pieces of what I let fall
apart and do it all over again, avoiding the pitfalls that caused the catastrophe
in the first place, this need to feel what I felt then, for real, the tender
touch, the brief embrace, the gentle kiss, dark talk in the dark that so
stirred up my hormones, stirred me for fervently than any witch’s brew, this
spell I fell under then to fall under again, though I know, I never will, the
bits of past we wish for never come back, click our heals or not, no magic balloon
to return us to Kansas, no ruby shoes, no broom stick, only the memory, a history
that flatly refuses to return, to bless us with a second chance in a world
where such dreams never come true.
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