Christ's Fingertips

The couch, where I sit

sucks me in

a deep breath

holding my stillness

with soft teeth

bound in ropes of a suit and tie

and a make believe phobia

there is no creaking

of a settling house

just a muted hum on the television

no blinking beams of light

through closed and broken blinds

I fear I will forget

to breathe

as you have

every detail in the ceiling

lashes out for attention

I see them all

I pay attention

to none

they could be barefoot bastard children

for somebody else to clothe

or the famished homeless

faceless

for somebody else to feed

all but the spider are there for me

one who knows nothing of reason

bad days with an open wound

refusing to close

meaningless, but vigilant

on my ceiling

I study for a purpose in his random path

and I wonder if I knew him

in another world

as a person

a human being

less than an insect

in this moment

I forget you

our memories transparent

like windows

I look through to see other things

there is no noise in the background

of the room or in my mind

but then

I feel the card

in my pocket

and Christ's fingertips place

each letter of your name

in my head

and I hear things

again.