Comatose

Am I here when I hear the tremble

in your voice as you tell me about

how we are going to have a picnic on the moon someday?

About how there once was a girl who tried so hard

to fly that she grew angel wings?

Am I here when you tell me how it feels to dance,

to hold me close, to sway while the record player resonates

amidst the lethargic buzzing of flies and sticky residue of sweet tea?

Am I here when you tell me that someday,

we will hide in the kitchen and eat leftover pie,

our socked feet curling together on the linoleum?

Oh darling, the sun was bright then,

and will be now,

searing our eyes, reminding us of when

Mama told us not to look into the sun,

joining us together in mutual blindness.

For now, I am satisfied by the delicate scent of your perfume,

musk and the ocean and you.

Is this but the sweet torture of heaven,

to be so close to you

for want of coming home?

Where am I as I admire the way our fading memories shimmer?

As seraphim dance in the setting sun,

as I jump, laughing, into the warm salt of the ocean,

waves carrying me home?