When I think of him, I smell chlorine.

Looking at her,
knowing he is hiding in his sacred space,
my mind builds other worlds to keep me in.

None of this is real,
it tells me.

I'm looking in from the outside.

The truth is,
the child I was,
the one that waded in cold creeks on hot mountains—
that's who's here.

He says it's not possible,
I'm just waiting for dinner.

Standing on the tracks,
the still air—heavy and uncomfortable—
interrupted by the gust of what's ahead.

Nothing will stop it.
Nothing can stop it.

And then—
I hear his cry.