“Wide-Eyed Walker” by Lauren Milne

The road map for intrepid
hands traced your finger along
winding lines that reminded you of
those EEG brainwave readings
that say your brain is wrong.

And your brain was wrong,
but not in a way that would show up as
spikes or flatlines
on tracking paper. You’d
hidden the defect in every
sharp-eyed morning sun you awoke to
and every footprint you placed

at your back. Those you left behind
would preserve your marks like
fossils, tell stories
of your adventures to the beat of
campfire sparks. They didn’t know
that they didn’t know
you. They didn’t know that your shadow
struggled to keep up.

You counted minutes like hours
and before diners had time
to remember your “usual”
you’d kick up the dust again.
Already they can’t recall
if your eyes were blue or grey,
if you left mid-afternoon or
mid-morning, if you ever once took
a seat they offered you.