"The One Left" by Hawon KooYou wear a cap. I wear a tie. We stare at each other. I’m looking down, you’re looking up. I’m standing, you’re sitting, and there’s a briefcase in my hand.
Can you truly see? I cannot tell. Your eyes are on mine, your hands are in mine, but are you looking? Are you there? The nurse is calling me, telling me things, things I only understand because it’s about you. She says you’re this, you know, and that, and that, and might become that. I understand, but it doesn’t make sense. It never makes sense. The nurse has left. You’re still looking at me, and you don’t move. I sit down. Your eyes follow. I put my briefcase on the ground. You don’t move at all. I hold your hand. You let me. We’re two. But we’re not. Do you see me? Can you see me? Do you know me? Can you know me? The doctor says maybe. My hope says yes. Your eyes say no. For now. For now.
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