It used to be I’d wonder at her laughter —
I’d try to tease her secrets from that tone,
From how she’d turn away just moments after —
Or was that when I didn’t join her laughter?
Sometimes she laughed at something she alone
Could see, and something jagged in her tone
Would haunt my waking dreams for days thereafter,
Such a bitter mockery of laughter
That every laugh I heard, even my own,
Became infected by its mordant tone.
Now every night and every day hereafter
Forever will be crowded with her laughter,
My fascination with its broken tone,
The secrets buried in her teasing laughter.