Holding on to Fofo

There isn’t much time now,

is there?

You and I sit together

on the edge.

Me on the chair,

and you on the bed.

I watch your face,

your eyes,

your lips,

to see

what you still know.

Your lips pooch forward,

strained,

as if trying to find somewhere to land,

an alien ship of sorts.

Hands limp as broken butterflies

by your side.

You tell me not to worry.

You tell me everything will be o.k.

You tell me you are fine.

But how can I believe you?

You do not know what day it is.

Or where you are.

Or who the president is.

Or how much I will miss you

when you are gone.

I hold your hand.

Stick my finger in yours

and hold on,

like I did

when I was a little girl.

Now, I do not know what I am holding on to.

You are already gone,

slipping away from me

faster

than I could have believed possible.

It is all happening too soon.

I am still standing on that fake white box

in my red Christmas dress,

holding your hand,

your face just out of the frame,

holding on and crying just like now,

trying to get something from you,

I could never have.

Holding on and crying –

Fofo.