There are nights that I think of you
as the little girl with pigtails in her hair,
and a nervous lilt in her step.
Nights, when you are scared
and you cannot find the way home,
and I am silent in the backseat.
And the mornings you pull on your kilt
and look at the way your thighs touch, and think,
I am two parts of a whole coming together.
I am watching you cry into your earl grey,
and your mother hovers by, and laughs,
because what else is there to do but break?
I can hear you now, still, echoing through the wind.
The way you said your name is the way
I fall asleep: quietly, and dreading the fall.