she tells me
she adores the stars
she'll pick me up for coffee
(once she can drive, in a few months.)
she often feels like cutting three and a half feet of winding purple hair,
straight from skull to bathroom tile floor
(i'll be there waiting to wind it into a poem.)
she asks me
to tell her
everything that makes my heart warm
what makes me feel like walking on clouds
she tells me
write it all down
into a book
a nokia of journals -
old leather, invincible
to carry it everywhere
and call it a hope journal
for just me, only me.
in the beginning,
i write a promise
to place hannah into a song,
her hope-journal in hand
speaking to me in the early hours of morning
as she has done before
quiet whispers of
"it is hard to forget someone like you"
