My Pretty

When I try to think while I write I tend to copy something I've already said before. Instead I just write and ignore the rules I've set for myself outside of this realm. This realm being a strange one but I am even stranger. Outside of my window smoke is constantly rising and with grace it breaks in and dances around my room. I've been told once or twice or never that I'm a good dancer, so I join in - but only I really know how awkward I feel the entire time. I always hope someone pretty is watching. Someone I only think is pretty, because I know what pretty is. And my pretty is not your pretty. And I'll always be grateful for that. My pretty erases my memory, she is generous but dangerous, and my pretty gives me purpose. Maybe in between the giants that roam around here, I'll clumsily bump into someone who never cared much for the dance either.