Peter

She sleeps just beyond the lace curtain, just beyond the window sill, just beyond my grasp.  She sleeps and doesn’t see me anymore, in her white nightgown with her brothers nearby, and the dog never barks when I come to the glass.

She grows in her sleep, and I come less often, as my enchantment fades like the sparkle in the fairy dust that I blew on their wishes, fanning dreams into flames that burst into wings that lifted them from the floor, from their beds.  

They came with me, once, and we soared above the smokestacks and clock towers and grownups; we left the grownups behind except one, but that’s a different story.  And when she grabbed my hand as we passed a star I looked into her eyes and saw a different version of myself reflected there, with combed hair and proper black slacks and a white shirt buttoned up my neck. And that’s when I knew she was going back, despite her stories and her laugh and her smile; despite the beautiful kiss hidden in the corner of her mouth.

Sometimes I fly to their window.  In my true reflection I see the reason she had to leave Neverland.