He stands like he is waiting for something.
Walks like he is waiting for something.
He is waiting for something.
I build the waiting room around him.
Pin his heart to the wall. A clock. He presses my hands
against it. Can you feel my pulse?
Barely. But yes.
If I can say yes, then I will say it.
When I say heart, I mean butterfly.
When I say pulse, I mean wings.
And my hands? My hands are windows,
and I saw a butterfly like that, once,
through the glass.
I mean seaglass.
I mean the delicate tint
of his eyes,
which I cannot describe
as anything that is not beautiful.
When I say I build the waiting room,
I mean I have been sitting in it for a long time.
By which I mean,
I have been sitting in my body for a long time.
So when I say I build the waiting room,
I mean I would like to wrap my body
around his. This does not mean
we are done waiting.
It means I would like to open the window
and let the butterfly in.
Aimee Lowenstern is a twenty-two-year-old poet living in Nevada. She has cerebral palsy and is a big fan of glitter. Her work can be found in several journals, including Paragon Press and Synaesthesia Magazine.