Strands of brown scattered
every which way, my hand
runs through my hair again,
my breathing deep.

Papers seemingly scattered,
a groove permanently centered
on the futon so deep I could fall,
deeper,
deeper,

Until my dreams
become my reality,
the words in my brain
painted onto the landscape,
my characters as real
as actors, newfound friends.

A knock on the door
snaps my thoughts back
into a file folder,
circled back to when
needed the least.

Who’s there?

The door opens,
breath catching
like a wish upon a star,
a man dressed
in a black suit standing
in the doorframe.

I’ve seen him before,
not once, but once
for every season,
a repeating figure
as familiar as my heart,
as unique as days
in the calendar.

I call his name,
the version matching summer
when the warm rays
fated to blind his brother,
when his sister destined
to lay across the asphalt,
her last breath a song,
voice fluttering,
soaring among the eagles.

The man says hello,
I ask if he’s real.

He assures me he is,
he has escaped the confines
of a page, allowed to dance
in the breeze, stroll in the sun,
find his way to me.

I ask of his family, his girl.
He answers, matching
to my memory meticulously.
His turn to present a question to me.

An offer to accompany
him to his world.
To feel the safety
of those pages,
the serif text wrap
around my body,
my organs spilling
onto the page
adding to it all
of my being.

I could find my home.
Be with those I love.

I answer him.