#type:poem

Sometimes,

I try talking to you

when the moon is out

and I'm indoors

eating muffins, laughing

with slippers dangling from my feet

and I'll glance over to your spot where

you would read the newspaper and 

point out all the

typos

and scratch the back of your neck

when you noticed me looking

and blush

down to you chest and laugh,

(You could laugh for hours.)

and I would wink at you,

but sometimes,

I look at your chair

that's empty and cold,

and doesn't flick raisins at me,

or carry an umbrella over my head

when it's not raining,

or hum themes to shows long forgotten.

I think I would remember

but I don't.

Sometimes,

I remember the times you talked to yourself

and I'd pause to listen but

you would quieten as though

I wasn't privileged to hear the voices

that are loud 

and scatter

in your head,

but I remember the time you allowed me to listen with

my cheek pressed

to your chest

and I heard

the thumping of your heart

as it told me 

that you heard me.

You press your fingers to my cheek

and they're cold but your palms

are warm as you smiled down at me.