I stop myself from ringing the number that is you.
I perch on the window sill; these days I enjoy writing only by sunlight. There is a hint of want—I want to ask the questions, of course. I want to be able to say, Yes, I was answered. Not left. Waiting. Wanting.
In my head, I see you with very battered shoes and ever so slightly messed up hair. In my body, I feel you as one does a bruise that will not rub away. A sound or a sensation from the inside that you think shouldn’t be there. But you ignore. For the sake of ignoring it.
I know you like this, but you are a series of digits. A used to be speed dial. You are always there when I open my eyes in a dream. You are always staring. Content as I ask the same sentence in every language imaginable except the ones you understand. And yet I do not pinch myself for fear of your eyes fading.
