when your mouth opens
and my eyes close,
I cannot tell you who I see

because I am not sure if I am dreaming,
dying, or desperately waiting
for the Hands of God and
the hands of time
to kindly rewind to the point when something tiny,
quite small,
took hold of my blood supply,

when someone measurably loved me
six weeks and four days;
someone I knew less time than I knew
the blood stain before him.
or her. it. a clot.

but it was never that to me. right now
two tiny invisible hands, residing in my residual pain,
the recesses of my mind,
took us, you and I, separate entities now,
and pushed us back:

my eyes brimming with tears, your sighs coercing the silence.

someone's satisfied sky cloud moon sun stars wind earth fire
smile.
laugh.
tears that flooded the ocean where I stand,

reaching for what was once mine.