Daughter, you called out for me late at night.
Like the calling of a doppelganger long after
The template has passed from the scent of your room.
You are sitting on the edge of your bed,
Coy honey over calm sheets.
I hold your hand to comfort the nudge that
Disturbed my reverie.
As the double of a long gone son
Sniffs under the dim light that we now keep switched on
All night long.
No, you are not washing soda and boiling water to us.
You are, of course, more than a stack of papers
That we keep in that room across the window,
To still remind us that we can create a wizard
That looks just like him.
No, honey, you are not looking at him.
Perched upon that window is a silhouette.
He is not real.
Soap cases, books and roller skates,
These are just some things he owned.
These, your mother has arranged in symmetrical shapes of black and blue
So that every morning,
It seems like there is still more than just shadow lurking in
No, dear, I do not see him in the reflection of the opposite window
Doll, I am not feeding him from the bowl of myself,
Of course, I don’t remember that he had the same eye colour as yours.
What if he comes back, you ask me.
And I am telling you,
Do not look for the solid of your skin,
You have to assemble your darkness so tightly,
That no one can ever tell you that you are not a real person anymore.
I switch off the light as you fall asleep again.
And I hope you wake up tomorrow.
Dear sweet girl,
Of course I don’t remember that his grey eyes
Were just slightly brighter than yours.