Dangle

She spends her nights dangling on bridges,

Predicting age spots before they appear,

Long fingers running over invisible wrinkles—

Names, details in the fabric—

Of those who will embed themselves in her.

See, these crinkles, by her eyes?

That's from all the times they'd try to make her

Cry.

You'd made her laugh instead.

See, these furrows, driven deep into her brow?

Flesh folded on flesh;

They made her crinkle with anger,

But you made them arch—

Confusion at how you could be so bold, to be so insane—

Instead.

See, that scar by her ear?

They kicked her,

Down, down, down,

They couldn't touch her.

But you?

You could;

You tried to teach her fun,

And you fell, she fell.

(She laughed the whole time,

You both did.)

See, those lined hands?

Children that weren't hers,

Taken care of by those hands.

(You used your hands,

Too.)

See, the way she smiles?

The way it's only for you?

The way you make her laugh,

Impossibly loud?

The way she gives you that look,

Derisive, unbelieving, that you could be so

Stupid,

So undeniably

Perfect?

You don't—

Not yet—

But as she dangles over bridges,

She knows—

Knows—

You will.

(And you do, too,

Because you also

Dangle.)