I don’t know how she got in, but she likes to call out the dust on my blinds, the dishes in my sink, the tone in my voice.

I tick something off the list. Guilt slips her arm over my shoulder, whispers in my ear about the three other things I didn’t do. 

When I get something done, she slips into bed next to me, touches my face and says, “But honey, you didn't do it very well.”

But where is your voice?

You remind me of someone I know

You’re an echo of the Creator

You’re here

I can touch you, hold you

I can press my face against you, and feel you near