There you are
a wall of rain stained windows
inside or against the wall,
remote in a crowded room.
You’re so young, all that remains on your solid window pain skin
are water marks.
She lives off her tennis shoes and
reorganized memories of age fourteen.
Her tongue hanging out, some throaty melody
coming up, attempting conversation.
Putting her hands to her cheeks, her lips, her hair, her waist,
they rapidly move and rest
as you sit with an easy posture.
You’re hair curls and twists quietly.
As she bends her fingers back
and cracks your silence.
She recalls fifteen, sixteen.
And spoons you silhouettes,
hopeful to intrigue you
with whatever the last idea claimed to love.
She’s still choking on seventeen
as you try to have a conversation
with her feelings.
And you walk quickly,
legs like branches blowing forward.
She drags her fingertips across the wood
then turns to tip toe up the stairs.