on the phone he asks me if I’ve been seeing anyone lately
in a parallel universe where pride does not taste of cough syrup
and we are still paper dolls
weightless and so hopeful and short of breath
I would have painted murals on the backs of his eyelids
as an explanation
I would have admitted that I’ve been seeing ghosts
rise up from the cracks in the floorboards
and they have warm hands
familiar only in a dependable absence of familiarity
that I take solace in
because we are both here and not
both incidentally veiled in the irony of transparency

                                 tell me all the things you couldn’t see then,
                                 and I will show you now,

I would have said,

                                 tell me how we continue to miss that which is      
                                 right in front of us
                                 - is it but for a lack of recognition?

treacled words spilling out of cupped palms
running down our wrists  

                                 do you also wonder why we slip
                                 through each other’s fingers?