She spends a lot of time curled up in a brown and tan and beige chair,
   a lot of time curling up to be comfortable,
   she spends a lot of time looking around with her iris-large brown eyes,
   a lot of time making sure the world listens when she talks to it.

   She talks a lot about whatever's on her mind,
            about herself, the goings-ons, complaints,
            brief bits of philospy drifting on through her head.
   She talks a lot about what should be, too.

   She notices odd things in the corners,
   away from the lights,
   or too near by them.

   She's never curled up with me.
   She never talks about me at all.
   She never talks about how we should be.
   She's never noticed me in the corner.