Windows

Can I ever know
what happened to the rest of him?

I can picture the room,
the doors made of valuable Nicaraguan wood,
masterpieces on the walls.

I look for him,
and my fingers reach for the future
and everything else slides away.
I grab at the pieces of paper,
the yellow windows,
the names.

Can I find the traces of affection?
The loneliness that
sprung fully formed
in the quiet moments
of tenderness?

His eyes can't be grasped.
In them are tales of monsters
that no one else remembers.

Then I feel a pair of hands
pressing tightly on my stomach.
They take me back to the sky,
to the wooden room,
to the yellow windows.