There's blood on the floor, and there's not supposed to be. It's only one drop of a nosebleed, but there it is, still mahogany-red on the tiles.
There's blankets on the couch, and there's not supposed to be. But it's lonesome back in her bedroom, and she can listen to the sounds of us breathing, if need be.
There's a glassiness in her smile, and there's not supposed to be. I see it in her pictures, trying to recapture the way people smiled back at her when she was a baby. Did she become less precious? Why don't people notice her the way they used to?
There's a way she tells you about her dreams, the way the ends of her sentences fade out, because she can't say it right, and I remember she could run long before she would talk. And she can make me laugh, but it'll be a long time before she can tell jokes.