I have grown cold.

My patients are flat / / surfaces. they are faces, they are

movements, they are stories. Dreams and tragedies and hopes.
they touch, dont reach me. their names are only labeled to
their bodies. come flicker diminish dissolve.
I store them in my memories, in my notebooks, in my papers and
yet it feels like they have never been there.
My memory
They are anesthetic. Images. They are no one.

When I was scared, my mom would tell me, close your eyes.
The bright outside had already been replaced by night. In my
room everything was dark. So was it inside me. The storm was
frightening. The lights in the sky attacked me. I was little,
their light extinguishes. They are so distant and yet their
light seemed to erode all of its surroundings. Close your eyes.
She says, close your eyes.
The noise still. It frightened me. Close your eye, she said, and
think of a place where you would like to be. I thought of a
beach. I thought of empty and welcoming I see her, father and
the sea. Close your eyes
I see the horizon. Just close and still the horizon would fit my
eyes and it would LIGHT threatened my dream.
She would them close my ears, touching close my ears. I could
feel the lines of her skin touching mine. I still listened to
her voice. Or maybe I didnt. was her the hands that told me all
those things. I would then calm, oblivious of the light, the
noise and the darkness outside, I could see the beach and all of
it.