the watchful

I never think about her. 

She is an introduction to a fairytale 

that no one reads

except, at one time, 

her devoted mother. 

I never choose to think about her. 

Eighteen and older than the world. 

Eighteen and a heart made to break. 

She loved joy 

and hated when others disappointed her. 

Now I wonder what she would think 

of me, of this, of the little moments 

that make a life. 

Her eyes would shine, maybe, 

watchful for a time when she might dissect how her world became so small. 

This girl, scrutiny her bedmate, 

she would think she knows me, 

but my secrets are my own. 

I could invite her in

but I'm scared she'd break me

with her joy.