I talk to him about immortality, the way he will be
preserved forever in the written word.
I tell him about the love letters,
how they have been composed, directed
with misdirection, from the grey edge of our childhood.
He is too far away to feel, to get a hold of,
hold onto, hold forever.
This is what we are here for, born for, I say,
to build temples, impromptu, emerging
from that time we waited for mom,
outside the door in our pajamas, we stayed
silent until she came back. But he remembers
her anger, and I remember the sweet center
of Chinese cookies in the park in autumn.
I convince him he is immortal, and like me,
the world will love him from a distance.