Can your wooden fingers
feel?
Or do they just leave splinters
in the wake of their caresses
and move on.
I swallowed your excuses
(mailed three weeks late,
blame the post).
For all my searching,
I cannot find even
a squeaking stool I can sit on
without looking up
to see you absentminded.
Was it you who,
out of play,
built me a window?
Carelessly,
you connected it with the outside
and forgot
about the indoors.
I lost my chance to respond
on the windowsill
and only watched
after your bounding escape;
with not one serious worry
you have a strength in your resilience.
I still let your window swing
with its lively creaking movement,
but like me,
it does not leave its hinges.
With no concerns
you ran on rainy days,
and soaked up energy
on the ignorance
of the fact that I missed you.
Now I've drawn you back
once more,
to find you without roots
and scratching childlike answers
to the questions stuck in my throat.
I feel as if I have never moved
and my only chance to see you
is on the season's change.
You paused a moment
to watch my petals
dropping.