She helped me believe I could fly. I was seven years old when we first both looked to the sky. She was pink. My favorite color was purple- thats okay though she had wings. Those wings looked like bunny ears and that's what I thought they were. So we never got to fly. A simple misunderstanding. One that stole the sky from her, from me.
Now we sit, grounded, unaware of what exactly we're missing, but missing it all the same.
She danced with me. I was a ballerina with pigeon toed feet. Physical therapy for me. I took a photograph with her and my tutu colored to match her. We smile together. She taught me how to smile and now we laugh together.
She once sang a song. I would play it on loop and we would sing together. She taught me how to sing and now she listens with her voice long gone, to me sing this song...
She was beautiful and I loved her. She taught me to be beautiful and to love me. I miss that love. I miss that fun. I miss her.
She sits on my dresser and soothes me to sleep, but I miss her still and the youth she came with. She's retired. I shouldn't know, but I can tell.
She was never my favorite. She was my only. And she still is.