Listen closely for
creaking floorboards
above your head.
Memorize his steps;
how he walks gently
when you are not alone
but plays music
with his shackles and
dances on granite soles
while you are sleeping.

When you wake
in a cold sweat,
know that he is there,
that he is with you although
you cannot see him.
He is a cold draft
after you take a bath,
he is the book you could have sworn
you put back on the shelf.
He is begging you to turn around,
to feel his touch,
to remember how
that book had started
your first conversation.

He will tune the radio to
your song and
play it louder
and louder
until he sees you fall to
your knees with his memories
cradled in your bony arms.

As you watch him shatter
the picture frames beside your bed,
remind yourself that
he is not malicious;
this is still the
pastel-eyed boy who's hands
made you feel safe,
he is trying to prove that
he exists,
he is shattering glass
with his illusory knuckles,
yearning to feel a sensation
that he can no longer perceive.

You are letting go of him.
You are telling him to move on.
He is alone in a dark room
and you are begging him to
go toward the light.

You come back to an
illuminated house.
Every lamp has been turned on,
every candle lit.
He is flooding you with light
because he cannot find his own.