The Thief of Parkinson's

It is a kind of grieving that exists for someone not yet dead.
The constant, drawn out, soul-sucking dread.
It is that feeling of seeing your eyes
and not knowing the person behind them anymore.
It is breaking down the comfortable protection of lies.
It is raw. It is angry. It is sore.
You are a disconnected astronaut,
suspended in the dizzying bleakness of space.
I am watching you (unreachable)
so far away and just beside me. I reach out and kiss your face.
I hold your hands within my own, fragile flowers trembling in my grasp.
I remain strong against my choice.
I tell you about my day and work and anything at all…
to medicate the silence with my voice.
When you speak, your voice tiptoes around a rasp.
The lucid moments bring light to your eyes
and every time I fall into that hopeful trap.
Sometimes you can hear me, from the confines of your mind.
And you reply with dry wit, a small grin, and smiling eyes.
Sometimes you look at me, blue eyes blank and empty as if blind.
I tell you I love you and you pat the knuckles of my hand.
I ask you how’s your food and
you ask me who I am.