I know I should stop waiting. It only leads to trouble, fumbling around inside pretend, waiting for reality or for the end.
We send ourselves letters hoping years will turn around the clocks with each word. But every letter making those words sound the same. He hates the letter B, thinks it's rough, kind of like me. He likes C, the way it sounds sliding around him. Kind of like me. He's slippery, ever changing, aging, growing in each minute, ready to run, teach him to run. Teach him to leave, because even he thinks it must be pretend. Send him away, send him away.
You know he'll stay.
