Delta India Delta

He views the world

from behind my eyes, reaching,

wondering, calculating. As calculating as I

could ever be.

I fade.

I whisper, “See me!” I run

through the stacks, looking

at piled volumes of the memories,

knowledge that already belongs

to me. He pursues me.

I trot through

the stacks, looking over

my shoulder.

Wondering how close he is.

And then I’m looking out

through his eyes.

Through my eyes.

And he’s speaking.

“Are you okay?”

“Are we okay?”

And I sigh. I always sigh.

“I’m not

ready yet.”

I hide behind

the stacks. I touch the window.

I can see his entire

world splayed out

in front of me. The breeze

on the back of my neck is

not from his window, though.

The breeze is from

the other window.

The one–one of

the ones–that I’m trying

to avoid.

I can feel it tickling

my ears, whispering

against my temple: “Here I am.”

“Are you okay?”

he asks again. But it’s not him,

this time.

This time, it’s me.

I’m asking

myself.

I’m asking my past.

I’m asking the window

behind me

from whence the wind blows.

He fades.

I hear the answer. “No.”

Like a scream torn

away on a gale. Like a

whisper from behind

encompassing fingers.

Like a voice bubbling

up inside me that I never

knew

I always knew

was there.

“No.”

No.

No.

I’m not okay.

We’re not okay.

I’m on the outside

now.

​ Looking in.