Double Vision

I am piecing you together, broken, absent one--you are whole because I say you are.

I think you up in metaphor: the rustle of leaves against a playful breeze, your laughter; this slant of sunlight, your arm; this track's drumbeats, your footsteps. "Hey, Squirt, come here," I hear you say. You are always calling people things. You are always dreaming things up; you are always dreaming. You think people are better than they are. I remember that cold December night when, not having seen each other for years, the first thing you did was scold me about my smoking, and I rethink my life.

Four Minutes, half an hour, an hour. I squint at the page I'm reading--did my heroine really say, "Death is a lie"? My eyes start to strain and I think of eyeglasses, words blurring, a morning, darkening.

Faceless, you brush past me to reach for that book you've been meaning to read since September. My breath catches, I spill my glass and I wait for the page to blot. I had forgotten you are here, and I begin again.

You are here because I say you are. Otherwise, the words I have not yet gotten to remain undisturbed. Otherwise, the page remains dry.

Slytherin has changed, kiddo. The files are saved in my drive.

For RJP. You are missed.