she's staying. she barely speaks. neither do i.
i haven't talked for years.
no one's came by. what do i possibly say?
there's no expectation for either of us to speak.
so we don't.

she stole my blankets.
it's cold, and i have nothing to wrap me up.
it's a bunch of bs.
she says she's taking my clothes too.
i don't mind.
she should be wearing something
other than those tore-up clothes.
even if it is coming out of my wardrobe. 

i keep reading.
she doesn't like books.
i don't know why.
she didn't explain.
just saw me writing and reading.
scoffed at me.
turned and flopped face-first
into a bean bag.
like it was a joke.

my life isn't a joke.
i do what i do because i like it.
she's the joke.
she came in here and cried on me.
who does that? crazy people.
i'm not crazy. i just like my books.
maybe she'll come around to liking them.
i'm hoping she will.
maybe she won't. not my choice.
not my business. just maybe. 

maybe.