I'm so happy to see that you've grown so tall. And you can write to me and tell what's so wonderful about the sickle on my knee. It means the world to me to see you fall asleep, the feel your breathe against my cheek, so southern and sorry.
I sketched the afternoon in slate. I watched the evening change from blue to pink to black to grey. And in the morning you arrived. I think of how I look through bluer eyes than mine. Am I brittle, bruised and bright? Or flattered and resigned?
A girl makes you cry...
And you may be closer than I've been. But I don't mind, it's only shoulders, eyes, and arms and knees. I pull the stories to my chest. I let myself believe the one that I like best, a little pressure on my neck is all I ever wanted.