I watch you slip
through the cracks
of consciousness,
and it’s killing me
slowly and
steadily,
as the light
in your eyes evaporates.
Now all you offer me is a blank stare;
no notions, no understanding-
you see me, but don’t see me,
and you ask me my name.
You wonder who I am.
You wonder where we are.
Don’t you remember?
As we sit on the bench,
I watch you slip
through the cracks
of your own mind,
and it wrenches me to see
you point in the distance,
directing my attention
to something that’s not there.
I try to see, I say I see-
and you smile, saying what
a nice young person I am,
what a nice, pleasant stranger.
I cling to your words, hoping
that within one of them I will
find a glowing ember
that will ignite
a spark, a memory-
anything.
But nothing’s there,
and we sit on the bench,
no more than strangers
in a world shifting with
ghosts.
Stellular Scribe 