Sometimes, I believe you are a skeleton. When I'm looking at you, and I see the outline of a man in the doorway. I wonder what happens inside your bones. What happened in your heart? In the part of your mind where your memories live. Tell me one day? Even if I don't want to know.
And when I'm sitting next to you, and I'm looking at the lines in your face, the way your eyes crinkle when you smile, the way you glow in the light of the TV, I want to freeze time and stay that way. I don't even have to touch you, just sit and watch you be.
I don't know what happened to your skeleton, Boy. Sometimes you tell me, and sometimes you don't. That's alright. I'll be okay with you. It'll eat me up inside until I pray really late at night, but we'll be alright.