inside my head. He's a child I cannot
put to bed. He'll not sleep. He's up
all night, asking for a glass of water,
starting a fight. He wakes me up at

three o'clock. He knocks on
my bedroom door. He stomps his feet
on my floorboards. I rise to the sound
of him. He's blended in my morning

coffee. Sticks to me like butter
toffee. Even the crimson leaves let
go before the December snow. Why do I
still remember? It's been years since that

September. January floats my breath in
billowing clouds that don't lose their steam.
A paper princess cannot scream. He's just
an imitation of my imagination.