His skin clung to his bones
His lungs black with the putrid
Air he feasted on every sunrise
Time is only a gradient but he
Is like oil and he slides past the
Gritty numbers.

Strangers hold his hand and he
Tries to count off the names that
Will receive Hallmark sympathies.

He remembers a faded photograph
Of a two year old toddler with
Rosy cheeks and a wayward stare
Her voice is too broken now to be
That of the child’s and he knows
That a few years ago he had tried
To feed her some steamed rice
But she smiled blankly and shook
Her pretty head and he just wanted
To keep her there a little longer.

He remembers cradling her for the
Very first time and the pockets of
Money he shoved into her hands
When she was bonier and more
Afraid of the scars on his arms.

He had wanted to tell her he loved her
And still did but they lived in the
Tower of Babel stretched across seas.

He wonders if she remembers him
Still if she knows that he might—