He waits outside my window,
I think I caught him from the corner of my eye.
But then I turn to look,
only to find traces he leaves behind.
On Grandma's face, a wrinkled glow;
On the child's, a pair of locked eyes.
And the fluttering pages of my frayed book
And within, a palliative belief.
I wonder if I should let anyone know
how his touch softens my senses
Around him, when my tears show,
He stops to dry them.
As if we're his.
