Her sleeping is stuttered and tattered with dreams
Her wake is like waking the dead
Her nightstand is scattered with patterns of things
She struggles to straighten her bed
Her days are a film that has faded with age
Her eyes are the color of love
She’s never looked better but saw better days
She drinks but it’s never enough
Her hands are an answer like dancers on glass
For lines on an old window pane
She teases her hair in a mirror at last
And jettisons into the rain
Her angels are weary from keeping her safe
Her soles are in need of repair
She carries an innocent string of mistakes
Like weights in the shape of the air
Her jitters are bitter but covered in smiles
She looks for what she cannot see
Her dresses are pressed like a fresh camomile
Her sweaters remind her of me