I try to lift them

off the ground,
but they're so heavy
I can't move them.
So I lie down next to them
but their faces are
opaque
and their eyes cast downwards.
So I sit on the ground
with my hands
around my knees,
talking to them as if
they were coma patients
drifting through the silent
deep space of unconsciousness,
waiting for signs of life,
and waiting also
for them to know,
in some way,
that I am here,
that I'm not going anywhere,
and that when they
awaken again,
that I will be with them.
And when they do awaken,
however long I have
sat with them, even if it's
been more years
than I can count, if they ask me,
"how long have you been waiting?",
I will, without a moment's pause say,
"Not long at all."