This hand which moves and rides some voice is not mine.
I give it over to you, young boy. This is what makes it fly so,
traveling out, tripping along in dance of shape and sound.

I acknowledge your presence in this fashion.
You tell me by the messages beaming out the back of your head,
you are the very boy who has waited an eternity
at some upper railing. You sit and peer through the spaces,
down the twisted stair. Your hands, they grip the vertical rail.
Silent. Silent. Waiting you.

Let this right hand of mine be your secret voice.
Let this scrawl and scratch be your gravelly tongue—
Ick-nicking, ga-chooing, click stutter.

What languages may I shape for our own sake?
With you, may I follow, setting trail markers just so.
Will others come mistaking their ways for yours?

My hand is opening and opens wide.
I remember you. I am returning.
Let it be.