she messed to the right date, a week past,
examining the flipped nights,
and breathed in the lists.
surely one for each year,
a plan and too many lines.
and she shook in her sheets for all that.
so with flushed cheeks and mulled heart,
soothed by passing headlights and
blithe outings tinged by fake,
she tied breath and it and his in a bow,
and felt a bigger space around her throat.
for what she wrote isn't what she wants truly.