One day, as I was playing reruns of her in my head, rereading all the notes she'd written me in short and sporadic meter and thought, I wondered if maybe she knew she was crazy. That she'd realized long ago that it worked for her, whether or not a person could appreciate her the same way I could, because they would at least like her, if not love her the same way I do. Her hair kept changing color, and maybe I couldn't reach out for her, but she'd still be there with her eyes open wide and her laughter would wake me up after I'd been awake for hours.
Whether she knows still, that she is crazy, I don't really know and I'll quit caring. But I can't stop loving it from hours and hours away.