She catches herself on evenings like these trying to say exactly the things she doesn't want to say, so she writes them and tears them apart instead. Her pen is forming a man-made lake on the paper as she writes A-A-A-A-A, unable to finish your name.
In the dead of night, after she tells you she is going to sleep, she sneaks out, marks her garden with a sign bearing your smile, and plants a seed. She fights her right hand as it reaches to flood ink and dirt over your picture and your seed, and she tries to describe to it what the tree will look like, but she honestly has no idea.
Sometimes she lies when you ask how she feels, like when you wanted her to tell you about the first time she saw the sea. Staring at the waves, drowning what they love and falling in love with what they drown, she almost saw the curls of her hair, the cold glint of her own eyes in the capricious, roiling water, but she told you she just grabbed some shells and went home.
You snort and say she has no idea what she does to you, but while you aren't looking, she ties her arms around her ankles to prevent them from carrying her feet away. She pretends not to notice your nose pressed against the window as indecision holds her life firmly at a standstill.
And by midnight you are willing yourself not to run through the sprawling orange-tinted city streets, trying to reach her. You tell yourself she won't, she can't be reached. It's funny though; she trusts you to know exactly where she is.