"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all." – Emily Dickinson A woman stands at the edge of my bed. Unfamiliar layers of cocoa camouflage her flesh. Takes my hands and opens my palms: Our lines, the same, lips make identical turns, finger tips sit platform, equal frames. Eyes fasten together. She, traces the dips in my cheeks. Darkens the creases. Even sketches my bones with her watch. She watches my lashes flicker several times before pressing forward. It’s like her spirit dug into my flesh. Leaving me exposed on a podium covered in photographs. Can’t say we held hands across green lights, will never share a cake, a happy birthday. Never give you my last bite. Never share I love you. I’m cold, are we there yet? No happy mother’s day. Will never see you cry. Why does her heart beat like mine, her lips press like mine, her face like, I? Even see her speak to me. Her words clog my pores, spilling over leaking through my sheets, down to the wrinkles in the runner. Now every day I get up running. Jogging away from the forehead kisses and see you later post cards. A woman stands at the end of my dreams. She holds hands with my grandma, sits on the shoulders of my father, touching foreheads with my grandpa. I look at her photos with forget. How could God take from me again? Leave me sitting next to sightseers with no empathy. Just want to put me on stage to linger. Dial my phone with messages saying we love you, call us, we miss you. Come see us. So I play forgets, cover myself in amnesia. When will you dial my phone, leave messages saying we miss her, let’s see her? Oh God, I want to call her, leave messages saying I love you, call me, I miss you—come home.