She drinks her iced tea with whipped cream
She fell asleep an hour ago;
Laptop open, mug on her desk
Her cups leave little rings on the wood-
She keeps saying she'll paint over them
There's this garden where she always finds butterflies
She has a photo album on her computer,
Calls it her "real-life fairytale"
She says that the twigs in her hair are "artistic" and that the paint on all her clothes adds character
She paid way too much for that shirt that she tore on a branch the first time she wore it,
But still wore it enough to fade the colours and soften the fabric
We went swimming at the lake: She left it at my house and it smells like her-
It smells like pinewood and eraser shavings and hairspray
It smells like the over-sweetened tea that I bring her for class every morning
I'm always late for trig after that, but I don't care
She makes me go for runs on the weekends, even slows down for me sometimes
She sings songs in a minor key every time she cooks
She makes rice almost every night, but she never sits down to eat-
Sets a formal place at the kitchen stove and plays orchestral music
She reads my text messages at one in the morning, almost never replies
But I can imagine her sitting up all alone, quietly humming or tapping her fingers on the mattress
Her hair just makes sense- she likes to braid it over her right shoulder so that it hangs when she leans over somethings