I meet you halfway
across the wasteland of your mind
to find you plonked on the ground,
drawing circles in the dust.
I sit down behind you,
wrap myself around your frame,
so small I could doubt
you gave birth to me – you,
this shell I’m holding and rocking –
and I drop a whisper in your ear
to fill the space
where complex thought once grew.
In your lostness perhaps you believe
you used to do this for me.
Yet you only ask:
Is it raining where you are?