There is a row of old jars lining her window sill, each filled with slowly withering roses plucked from the garden outside. Their petals are the freshest pink, edges brown and puckering. I don’t know how long she’ll keep them.
“How do you always sound so poetic?” she asks, bringing a smile to my lips.
“Because I have too many words and too much time,” I respond.
She bites her lips and pushes her hair back from her forehead. We make a funny pair, she and I, spending long days in her room, curled on the single mattress on her floor. My favorite time of day is when the sun sinks, sending waves of pink light through the window and painting shadows against the far wall.
“There you go again,” she smiles, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling. There are tiny freckles dotting her throat like scattered stars.
“You should write a book,” she adds.
“It’d be full of silly things.”
“Maybe, but beautiful nonetheless.”
Her hand cups my jaw. “Simple thoughts,” she says.
“And fragile paper hearts,” I respond.
“Is that all we are?” she asks, sincerely.
I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. “Stop being so cheesy,” I say.
She pulls away from me, walking across her room in her bare feet. Her legs are long and pale, speckled with freckles like those on her throat and cheeks. She sits at her desk, crosses those long legs, and begins to write in her journal.
Things are always like this with her and I. When ideas come to us we put everything down and try to make them into something real.
I fall asleep watching the shadows of the leaves against the far wall flicker in the dimming light.