Late into the night
I watch your breath skip and falter
thinking of guardian angels
and wondering if yours
is actually some adolescent, who
invisibly to me
is taking various tools to your supine body,
what I imagined was your home
here
but was really something he
depended on while growing up
and now must dismantle in order
to become an adult.
Perhaps he sits with a bemused expression
holding part of you in his lap,
as I would part of a faithful old desk or bed frame
that saw me through late nights of homework
or tearful sleeps,
unscrewing, prising, coaxing
parts away from parts
making them parts again.
For a moment he wonders
with a little sadness
what to do with all the parts
as if your end were one of many
uncertain steps toward the life
he is making himself.