she hated it for being hours behind
one, two, six, until eleven
or a twenty four behind
she hated it
for checking up time
if it was appropiate time
she hated it more
that she had to
to think if it’s appropriate
for her thumb to send words
words that sometimes only headlines to him
that he only reads
never really wanting to know

they’d been hurt
had scars on their facade
they’d unpleasant stories
had secrets and sorrows
but not to her fiction
to every happiness
flawless facade
tranquil stories—almost lullaby;
unfathomable joy