It’s kind of strange
when I think about it.
It’s kind of strange that
I can hardly see your face
that I can never hear your
voice
only your whisper.

You smell like lavender, winter lakes
mist and
white empty rooms.
You’re as real as me,
and just as human when
you try
to remember
what happened
before we danced.

I remember when
you first told me your name.
Thomas
And it crept through my bones
slowly
like the single note of a harp
vibrating.

Your hands were cold,
and I couldn’t see them
but still
they held mine, and seemed
to know them perfectly.

Someday
I’ll lie in this bed
ashy hair
and a blue silk nightgown
cold as you are
and maybe then
I’ll finally see
your hands.