He didn’t ask to come—
just appeared, unclaimed,
tethered to the rusted pulse
of something children forget to fear.

They moved in near-unison,
him trailing one breath behind,
a rhythm just off
like a nursery rhyme sung backwards.
Isn’t it tender?
How we spin in circles
calling it progress.

Above—the painted scenes
stretch on and on,
the ceiling telling its stories
again, again.
He believed in them
the way a child believes
a wooden horse
can take her home.

She laughed in pink—
a carriage too delicate for real roads.
He handed her words
wrapped in sugar,
dissolving before
she could name them.

He’s still there, you know.
Eyes wide, heart untethered,
chasing the lights
like they’re new.
Eighty years and the ground
hasn’t let him go.

And me?
I wait in the hush between turns,
listening for the music
to call me forward—
knowing it might,
knowing it will.

Copyright © 2024 Vae Holloway. All rights reserved.