there are tiny little fragments of a dream

embedded in my hands.

each bit a painful reminder,

unforgettable as every inch of the floor we spend hours looking at.

examining feet and shoes with a ferocity known only to books and love letters.

down, down, down.

oh don't you know,

my delightful little cherub,

that's the feeling of being sick to your stomach with revenge,

an exaggerated emotion—

fit for all our flightless fancies.

listen well,

my creeping wide-eyed child,

with your spindly thoughts and wicked smile.

my beautiful bow-legged boy.

you'll surprise your mother for sure.

you said you'd keep me honest.

but i wont call you on it.

a mere flutter of memory,

dusting over the eyelids in dreams,

murmuring through the veins.

a name,

frankly forgotten,

whispered between tendons.

or simply,

the dearest darling bit

of a larger than life day at the fair,

an endearing memento,

worried like a tooth ache.

i love you.

come home.