It took years to find you, and when I did, I didn't know I had.
Wisps of flowing white and knitted yarn lined your contours,
and I knew that my world had shifted course specifically for us to brush hands.
You drifted in and out of consciousness, your two-dimensional figure often disappearing.
Perhaps you planned this in advance, dropping subtle clues to your permanent arrival.
Petty things- a glance, a laugh, a shared love for all things pushed aside.
You were wired to be my ideal.
Eventually you solidified to stay, with your folded leather hands and ever-changing vacant dreams.
For weeks we painted a lifestyle that only we could write and recite, and in it, we would be perpetually seventeen.
A song played at an acquired frequency so high that only we could hear it.
But soon your line of existence began to thin- your hands would often hollow out and light would shine through your translucent being
Signs of your looming fate,
The tick tock to your departure
I feared I would lose you, like I knew I could.
You would vanish from existence just like you had before.
But I couldn't stop you. Who could, after all?
Your chirping heart echoed through birdcage ribs,
with a desire to slip through the hardened muscle and crackled bone
You did what you wanted.
Your eyes have dimmed down, now wired through strands of something foreign to me.
And while we continue to share breaths, I fear your hands are too transparent to return,
and your wires are too tangled to be reset.
Our painting has lost it's luster, and when the music plays, everyone can hear it.
But when I place the needle on the record I hear your warbled voice through the pops and the white noise.
It's our song.