He wishes he had a hobby.

Wishes he had a hand to hold,
wishes the intake of breathes was
filled with a special kind of
something.

Special something? He can't even name
it, yet he wishes.

Names little things to himself, knows them with
a distinctness that he won’t admit. For
what reason, we will never know.

He hopscotches around the details.
No one mentions this either.

Walking through the house
while no ones around,
speaking loudly to himself.

He's trying to fill up the long, quiet years.

Trying to fill up his quiet heart.
Maybe there is something he's missing.

Oh, he's missing a lot of things.

There's a list, somewhere.
Someone bets this.

It's him.

It's his brain.

It's his memories, the way they echo in his
head after repeatedly going over them
like lines for a play.*

Sometimes he acts out the parts.