Being left

Stay with me, let your hands fall.
Your fingers so small, I'll never find them.
Outside, the world has too many fingers.

Let the orange in your hair be the sun.
The flies that circle us now are singing our song.
Like a light, we draw these flies and beetles.
Is it because we are vibrant?
Do they sense our vitality and want to thank us?

It is ironic to unfold all your dresses now.
We never looked at them until you started packing.
There is a blue, and an orange, with pips for buttons.
What if I remind you of the time when you spilled orange juice?
Only I noticed, but you thought everyone would, and you hid.
I still don't know if it came out or if your dress drank it.
All of those times? Let your hands fall.

I promise, it is all better outside.
There are ponies, and nail polish, and you can even have red.
But I always thought better things were not why we were.
Maybe you know more now.
I wish only you would tell me.
I wish only to know where to go.