Rosie dances like rain. She steps and twirls and bites her nails and Rosie doesn't know she's beautiful. Rosie sees in greens and blues and a color she insists is called 'temperance', and Rosie has no idea she shines like gold.

     Rosie buys smiles from her imaginary friends at ten cents a tooth. Rosie can't tell real from make-believe, but then again, Rosie was always a child at heart.

     Rosie spends her days outside picking daisies, and sometimes you can hear her sing "She loves me, she loves me not, but most likely I'm certain she loves me not…" And Rosie doesn't know I'd sell my lungs for her, because they never seem to work around her anyway.

     And if Rosie knew just how wonderful she is, I would slip out of mind and sight, so I'll never tell, never tell…

     And Rosie will never know.