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Sometimes,
when I am asleep,
I dream of who I used to be,
who I left behind.
I can usually see his shadow first,
made of smoke and mist.
I watch as he stumbles,
as he tries to do
control a body
that is no longer his.
I approach him and he starts,
frightened of the mist
becoming another.
“I thought I was alone down here.”
He says.
“I’m always alone.”
I pull him into an embrace,
try to communicate everything
I wish someone had said to me
while I walked around
inside the darkness
of myself.
“You are not alone.”
I say.
“I am always with you.”
I stand back to brush a hand
along his brow, hoping that
he can feel the light
I’m giving
him.
As the darkness begins to lessen,
and the brightness of reality intercedes,
I look at him,
at me,
one last time.
I see a kernel of light,
pulsing in his forehead
where I touched him.
It is a seed
about to
grow.