There was a time when she lived
inside his mind, tucked away, so she could
be there, whenever he needed her.
This happened often, as it turned out,
and she flicked her hands over
her clothes to even out the imaginary
wrinkles caused from being squished
into a fortified subconscious.
What kind of advice could she give him?
What kind of words did he put in her mouth?
He would tell her all about it later, the real her,
and she would let her amusement culminate in words
that she really said -- "You know, you can always
ask me." But now she understands why
he had to train himself to look to this consolidated
version of his best friend -- she wouldn't always
be there for him. He must have known that
more clearly than she did so when she really didn't
have anything nice to say, he didn't have to ask
the real her to say anything at all.