Little Miss

            Her ruby eyes shine out of her sweater hem, woven in with gold thread—I’d like to weave anything close to that treasure.
            She shuffled in the door to push off her boots against the floorboard and pull up another pair of socks. I like the repetition of her motion. Seven steps to the kitchen, the click of the lightswitch and soft pitter on the tiles. It moves me more than I would have liked a month ago. But here I sit and feel her sound, soft caresses across my legs. I can’t say it’s so different from the sound of car doors creaking and slamming out the window in the dark, but here I know it’s her. It’s always her here.
            She flashes and I jump in the mornings, turning herself over and over until she’s gone. I wish she’d stay longer.
             But she’s here now, always moving. She startled the wood with a dropped spoon, a quiet Crap. Her voice smooths over the air in arching waves. Imitation of her tongue-in-cheek phone calls is lain crooked behind me, cracked where I could never capture her imperfection in silk. Her hair shines like dewdrops in the morning. She runs her hand through the strands of sunshine and settles back in the red velvet chair, bowl propped on her knees, her feet on the ottoman and her breath in the air. Spirals of sweetness from her chilled lips.
            Maybe I’m too brave to poise myself above that breath. Silver lining of all my days hanging in the air. I rest on her shoulder. She doesn’t know. She couldn’t know or we’d never be so far apart. Wool and her hair across her neck. Her beautiful neck. I move to touch her.
            She’s screaming, and I’m on the floor, red in my eyes and heat in my legs. Don’t be frightened! I want to say, if only my jaw could wrap around the air like hers does! The chair is gigantic from down here. Her shrieks are larger than life. Scuttle into the bottom of the chair; the dark will return to quiet. I hope for another day where her sound stays soft beside me.