It’s a warm night and she’s sitting on her roof again,
legs on either side of the point so her chi is good.
I think she does it because she can never decide
what world to belong to. I think she’s happy, but I think
she can only look at the sky so much before she needs
a different high to calm her enraged soul.
She is beautiful, even in her over-sized men’s pyjama pants
and flowy yellow halter top.
Everything about her is subtle, like a baby spider that clings to
her feather hands.
She is light.

I want to ask her what she thinks about up there, but I’ll
probably never understand it. I want to put her under something,
I want to stop being enraptured by her sea blue eyes
and I want to classify her in my mind.
She doesn’t do anything for me, but I find myself drawn to
her warmth, fighting to exist in her world. She’s like
the stars in that way; you can see her, you can come close to
touching her, but staring at her will only burn your eyes.
I don’t think she even knows what is at her core.