How gracefully your fingertips touched the brim of
Pulling them gently as to not disturb the hair on my forehead.
That was the gentlest you’d ever been.
The sun beat down and paraded itself in through our kitchen window
Creeping slowly across to the spot where I sat,
Shoulders against the cupboards
There was a playfulness in your eyes that I hadn’t seen in a while.
“You still like me don’t you?”
I struggled to find my sentence…“Of course.”
And with the swiftness of a fox, he jumped to his feet and stretched out his hand.
His hand stood perfectly still in the air above my anxious eyes.
I glanced outward my own hand, resting lightly on the floor.
I flipped it over, the lines were still there, the lifeline included.
I must be alive.
Counting my fingertips, I raised my hand slowly and met with the hand of this man, a stranger to me now.
I wondered, as I arose, how much time I spent sitting against the cupboard beneath the window.
My feet were hot, having been touched by the passing sun and shadows.
I followed slowly, apprehensive, the body leading me down the hallway.
I walked past framed photos of someone who looked like me, with someone who looked like him. Impossible.
He must have noticed the essence of sadness on my face.
“Don’t you remember?”
“What is there to remember?”
His confident, boyish stance turned quickly into a slump.
He looked at me as if he could see directly through me.
“I wish you would wake up.”