Kyoko gets older.
she assumes things will drastically change
like sleeping through the night
without dreams of every boy she ever loved.
or waking up in the morning to the same walls.
in the same room.
in the same city.
that she'll walk out into the cloudy day with her hooded jacket
into the arms of a sweet kind gentle person
with just enough fire to spontaneously combust
in a Craftsman cottage
three acres away from the nearest neighbor.
there will be more time for bike rides, baking and learning how to cross stitch.
there will be a piano on which she will learn how to play songs people don't play so often anymore.
there will be a tree in the backyard.
at twilight she will swing and dangle until the night
is the perfect shade of purple for telling her love across the sky.
