He Remembers the Words, But Do They Remember Him?

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He watches his hands move,
but they are foreign,
like borrowed gloves a size too big
or an alphabet he cannot interpret.

The words used to spill from him,
effortless, like exhaling.
Now they resist,
retreating just out of reach,
huddling in the hollow spaces of his mind.

He misses the weight of them,
the way they wrapped around him,
steady, sure, safe,
like a thick wool blanket
when the alarm rouses him
on a frigid December morning.

Now, the silence stretches,
an empty room he does not know how to fill.

He wonders if the words have left for good,
or if they are waiting,
watching,
for his attention to waiver.

So, he sits,
hands hovering,
heart hoping,
because maybe —
just maybe —
they will come home again.