Sing me home
beneath the sun.
The kid comes swiftly,
cradled until he can go again.
Humming back and running
my thumb along the hairs of an eyebrow.
Lips pressed to lashes
left and then right.
Count the number and quantify
the hairs at the small of his neck
to remember
the next time he walks
through the front door.
Tongue slips
offense.
Crank! Sing me home.
Earlobes graze and
embers tell his tale.
Forgotten you. Forgotten me.
We are the same.
"Have you missed me?"
"No."
"I have missed you."
Bring about the death of a galaxy
with one word.
Please don't run away this time.
