She picks up my guitar

and I show her where to put her hands

and which strings to play.

“Like this?” the strings chip her perfect nails-

she’ll hate that when she notices-

and I hate her 

and I love her

for playing it perfectly.

Later when I wake up at midnight

I’ll turn to see her wrapped in blankets,

freckled hands tucked under pillows

And her smushed-up sleep face

will look so sweet

and so funny

that I’ll want to cry.