Sticks scrape a rhythm

to years ago,

some small part of you maybe still.

You remember his name

he knows.

Not much else,

he thinks.

You stare at dark nothings.

You could still call,

shrink time

a bit

in the oven

of your room.

You could pull it down

to size,

widen his breath

and eyes,

but you drop,

lie

for an hour

to music he taped

and sleep

again.