here is someone

—

At four you’ll sip your black tea

either with Splenda or not

depending on who you think you are today.

Sit by the window, picturing a family in the

backyard—

he’s running barefoot in the grass again,

and the young is shouting something about

wearing white.

you count his steps like rosary beads,

trace an image of what is comparable to pure joy

then forget the word for “lawn.”

At five.

When you open your eyes

you’ll fix on the glass just left of the sunbeam

a shape there, a resemblance

that says hello without speaking.

It fades quietly when the fifth hour es by,

like it never asked to be ed.

For a strange reason

you feel the pull of something

or somebody guiding you outside.

There’s no name or breath for it,

but the air feels more like skin than wind.

a softness of hold that others might not see

but you do.

It leads you gently

like a dance you know

but can’t quite place how you do.

At six, you’ll notice all the things said,

the way these rooms hold onto voices like time,

old sweaters you can’t seem to toss away,

and the word, “forever”.

At seven,

You it on as a distant memory,

but it lingers.

its presence warm with sadness and joy, tempting

a question of fate

and a bargain to rewrite it all from before

And at eight,

it becomes black.

At nine

you ask if the bedroom still smells like

strawberries and starch.

I nod,

because we’re still in the house,

even if it withers away

you will too,

but it would be lovely

to have your company again

But when ten comes,

I’ll ease the cold cup from your hands,

replace it with a hot one,

tuck you back in bed,

for a second seeing the truer you again.

You don’t know it’s me,

but you thank me like a stranger

and I say, I’ll be back tomorrow,

thought I never really left.

I’ll never leave you,

not until I feel the weight of your hands against mine, one day,

when your time s mine.

—