Own Your Story
Spare a dollar for your thoughts,”
her angelic voice murmured.
His callused hands — firm,
visibly burdened.
“My stomach’s in knots, I’m distraught —
when will my heart stop hurtin’?”
She slides over a coffee-stained napkin;
he grabs it without askin’.
Three small words it simply stated:
Own your story.
He grinned and waited.
“What does this mean, young girl?”
She brushed her silk hair,
tightened her bow.
“That’s for you to find out —
only you’ll know.”
A smile at last came across his face.
“Can I at least get a name?
You can’t leave without a trace.”
She looked in his eyes and said,
“You’ll see me again.”
The man thought — if not now, then when?
The girl straightened her white dressing gown,
got up and left the diner downtown.
For if the man sees her again, he will never know —
some stories are best left untold.
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