He views the world
from behind my eyes, reaching,
wondering, calculating. As calculating as I
could ever be.
I fade.
I whisper, “See me!” I run
through the stacks, looking
at piled volumes of the memories,
knowledge that already belongs
to me. He pursues me.
I trot through
the stacks, looking over
my shoulder.
Wondering how close he is.
And then I’m looking out
through his eyes.
Through my eyes.
And he’s speaking.
“Are you okay?”
“Are we okay?”
And I sigh. I always sigh.
“I’m not
ready yet.”
I hide behind
the stacks. I touch the window.
I can see his entire
world splayed out
in front of me. The breeze
on the back of my neck is
not from his window, though.
The breeze is from
the other window.
The one–one of
the ones–that I’m trying
to avoid.
I can feel it tickling
my ears, whispering
against my temple: “Here I am.”
“Are you okay?”
he asks again. But it’s not him,
this time.
This time, it’s me.
I’m asking
myself.
I’m asking my past.
I’m asking the window
behind me
from whence the wind blows.
He fades.
I hear the answer. “No.”
Like a scream torn
away on a gale. Like a
whisper from behind
encompassing fingers.
Like a voice bubbling
up inside me that I never
knew
I always knew
was there.
“No.”
No.
No.
I’m not okay.
We’re not okay.
I’m on the outside
now.
Looking in.
