Spirit Screens

It is dusk,
that crimson hour when
remnants from the day sigh
with relief at being able to rest.
We have not spoken for a long while.
Days, actually, but who keeps track?
“I want out” she speaks in formal voice.
My eyes try to absorb her essence as I
feign surprise. She looks down. I lean
in, stroke her cheek like she likes me to
do and for the first time in forever I am
aware of the singes of auburn in her hair.