Smiles For Everett

I watch.

I watch his hands,

Floating,

Twirling,

Shakespearean appendages.

I watch his eyes,

Glazed with medication,

Yet twinkling just as brightly

As the sky above us.

His smile,

As white

As a bowl of creamed corn,

But to me it gleams blindingly.

Between my fingers

Rest his.

They tremble, bony worms,

So I cradle them gently.

“Sometimes,

When I stare at the clouds,

I think that I can mold them

With my own two hands.”

His palm turns up,

Reaching to fondle

A cumulonimbus

As gently as cotton fluff.

“I can turn it into

Anything I want.

I can give it

A new meaning.”

His fingers curl.

“An apple.”

His thumb flicks.

“A pear.”

My heart numbs

With that feeling of love,

A thick piece of ice

As warm as a teddy bear.

“Watch this,”

He murmurs,

A voice like molasses.

“I'll make something for you.”

A fingertip

Can be a paintbrush

If its owner

Is a dreamer.

Heaven is his easel,

Blues, whites, and greys,

Stroked into existence

With invisible touch.

I don't know what he's making.

My name,

A heart,

I can't watch.

I see only

His nose,

A drop of red life,

The river it creates.

His painting,

Interrupted.

His tissues,

Soaked.

By the time it dries,

My hands are smeared,

And he apologizes

As if he's done something wrong.