Love, isn't it?

You let it go on again for far too long,
and I can't blame you,
because sometimes it's easier to say I hate you
and let the doors close for a few hours
than it is to turn the phrase just a little more to the
center.

You and I began this years ago, didn't we?,
when we both were perhaps a little younger
and a little shorter,
but that's what happens as the day-to-day
turns us around and around
like a gigantic screw.
I remember you there, in my lap,
singing your own songs
and asking me to sing along.
Any words would suffice.
Any melody would be fine.

You would test our limits, you would,
sometimes pacing clever little lines
in our faces as we traced
the little messes you left behind.

But, you would always be there,
little girl,
coming with your knees skinned
with hands open and cheeks stained
a brilliant red.

So, here we are. You and I separated
by the thinnest of iron doors.
I know that tomorrow, you'll
walk from your room, and join us for breakfast.