Come with me

There’s a man
living in my house. I
rarely see him; he hides
behind the mirror,
and whines.
The other day
I found him
and said: “Tell me,
does the storm still rage, does
the wind still blow?”
“No.”
“Then why
are you bent, and bracing
and facing away?”
“Well…”
“What!? I see
that you are warm
like the rest of us.” “But
I’ve cut the flesh
from my bones!”
“Why?
Did you forget how to bleed?”
“There’s grit
in my teeth.”

I told him:
“Unbury yourself.
Wake those
tired eyes and come – they
said you were searching.” “And
it must be clear
that I’ve found nothing?”
“Yes. But light shines through
the cracks, and corpses
have been known to smile.”

“Ah.”

“Look, I’m leaving tomorrow,
I guess you could come.”
“Where are you going?”
He asked.
“Where is anyone going?”
I retorted.
“Who knows?”
“Someone must.”
“Someone?”

I looked at him like the lost
look at the sky.
“I won’t tell you again.”
“No?”
“No. So come,
come now
or remain
forgotten.”