she likes to sit at the window and listen to the rain.
she almost looks wistful,
as if she’s dreaming of some place far away.
in a minute, she’ll probably turn and ask if we can go there someday.
when i leave, she’ll lie in bed and wonder
if any of it really ever happened.
if i even exist.
she doesn’t mind when i call in the middle of the night
to make sure she’s doing okay.
but she doesn’t always tell the truth,
sending me to sleep with a false security.
she’ll wake up the next morning
having forgotten that she cried the night before.
about what, she’ll never remember.
the sheets dried her tears hours ago.
she likes to walk on the wet rocks with bare feet;
she says she feels free that way.
she likes to walk along the edge of the cliff,
smiling and laughing because she knows it worries me.
“stop being so concerned,” she says,
“that stress will kill you one day.”
she looks out over the ocean,
and imagines, for a brief moment, she has wings.
when the sun sets, i will carry her home;
singing to her as she sleeps in my arms.
and tomorrow, she’ll wake up,
wondering if it was all just a dream.
