Good to be Home

There is hesitance
in his eyes.

He thanks me for
not leaving him alone
and brushes a hand
across my thighs.

He spends the morning
sketching in bed,
but I am not the
photograph in his head.

I am only the crutch
on which he leans.

He draws only the
nightmares he dreams.
He thanks me for
not leaving him alone.
I am the crutch
on which he leans.
Even as he says
it’s good to be home.

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