It’s been a minute, I say.
Or rather, I think. Or whatever
one does in dreams.

Or maybe not even a dream,
but that funky, can’t-open-the-eyes
alpha state when something

propels me to the throne
where the sleepy cat walks in
wanting a pat.

What minute? he says.

You know, I say,
since I’ve heard from you.

I’m always around, he says.
I hear you.

But I don’t always hear you,
I say. Months go by, and I don’t
get a sense of you.

Months? he says.

You remember months, I say.
Thirty days, sometimes thirty-one.
In one instance, twenty-eight.

Days? he says. Oh, time.
Right. You have time.

You don’t have time, I say,
my feelers starting to chafe.

Right, he says. No time at all.

For me? I say, a bit hurt.

No, no, he says,
and if he had a head,
he’d be shaking it.

Time’s an artificial construct,
Toots. You know that.
I have all the time.
You have all the time.
We have nothing but time now.

How come I don’t hear you then?
I say, a little peeved.

You’re hearing me now, he says.
What are you doing?

Sleeping, I say. Maybe dreaming.

There you go, he says. But it
doesn’t mean I’m not listening.
Always with you, right?

And I feel his smile
(when he had a smile)
and his big hand
(when he had a hand)

cup my head as I slide back
into no-time with the forever
of him.