Here is the foyer. Your bedside, hollowed with silence.
Your favorite window, where the light rises, playful
as koi. Warmth quivering into arrows, piercing your skin.
Before your body learned to be both archer and wound. Before
diagnosis. Here is where you should have grown tall and gray. Stomach full
with thousands of possible futures, not bloated with memory, antiseptic,
old desires. Tender tissue against a sea of gravel. A quiet
love grows, then rots. Here is the foyer, the open door,
hands torn with prayer. Patchwork light, patient and unblinking.
Waiting for you to come home.
