I was talking to you the other day,
In my head, like I usually do.
This and the many strains of my madness,
I know you know them all,
And laugh at them in your own certain way.
I know the way your eyes crinkle,
And I see them, when I make a joke,
In my head, when you laugh with me,
And name the same things with alarming regularity.
When you cradle my head in your imaginary hands,
And I sense that when I talk,
You don’t wander off, or stop to stare.
In my moments with you, you’re there.
When my sadness is shared with a wraith of you,
And I know that my hand would have been held,
With your presence and everything it implies.
I still talk to you, and I know that you listen,
Because it is not just fate that when I shout in my head,