A House Inside You

I can’t see you. You are in a house inside you. I can’t see. You wet your windows trying to clear them up so I can peer in. But it’s not the windows. You’re just too far. I can’t see. You can shout to me all the details of the corners and furniture. I can only piece a picture out of watercolors. You can switch on every light, trip the breakers. But I’m still outside the walls. And then you can’t see.

And I’m just the same. You’re outside. I’ve fractured my fingers, against the walls. You can’t see