Dreaming by Jane Lang Not sure what it was she wanted the girl often stood in this cramped alley looking towards the sea beyond; she knew she wanted "more," yet when she sat at the far table, eating crusty bread, enjoying a sip of red wine Rosa allowed her, she could not put pictures to "more" Sometimes she pretended she was reading romantic words from a lover who sailed as crew to ports of call with exotic names, sometimes she dreamed of lying in his arms making the world go away one kiss at a time and sometimes, she sat at this table, smelled the heady bougainvillea of low-hanging vines counted the many herbs growing in terracotta pots along these tile floors and knew, if she wanted "more" than her lot—reality would set in, deaden her senses because her destiny was sealed
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