Peekaboo. Last game for a while.
I open my eyes, smile,
and see but cannot touch
your hands, the only part
awake while you sleep.
They're picking apart the kite-string
of your life, even as you rise
out of reach
like a balloon, like a blessing.
I think you're dreaming
of a distant beach
building castles for the waves to live in.

I see you're
so quiet people'd think
you almost weren't breathing
with the drip silent in your arm
a string about to fray

but I can't see
for the life of me
the far-off
places
to which
you

stray