it never fails to escape my notice that;


i.
the rattling of the windows makes her
want a little less, but a little more.
she always tries to step it up,
but her arms (today) are rather sore.
it doesn't matter;
yet
she likes feeling safe.
windows; the memories chafe;
remind her of him. and how
he'd just climb in.

ii.
her phone rings, like the silver circlet enthroned
on her ankle. rings and clings; but who phoned?
even as the bells
move slightly in time with her footsteps;
and the button is nearly as
depressed as her when she has to ask 'Who's this?'
she likes knowing who calls,
maybe he will.
maybe,
she will.

iii.
everytime she picks out a dress,
more care than she'd
(confess)
tell me.
red pink blue green.
something new, he hasn't seen.
save this for the summer.
puts it back on
(only for him)
the rack.

iv.
she loves him.

v.
she says his name with
a little less reverence, a little more
longing.
maybe she should tell him.
maybe he
(doesn't want her)
already knows.
she braids her hair for bed, two little,
knobs on her head, so in the morning
into flowing curls it'd settle,
long and loving.