A word on the anticipation

Gorgeous birch trees at the orphanage

You are almost a ghost in my home
a spirit, born of my anticipation

In my ears the sound of your naked feet
slap lightly on my hardwood floors.

On my face dry the splashes
of water from your bath

In my nose is the smell of your warm and salty skin
as I bury my face into the side of your neck

On my tongue melts the sweet
of a summer berry you bring to my lips,
crushed in your little palm

I see you,
barely there
already in this space where you belong

When you come
When move from the light and shimmer of my anticiaption
and become what you already are:
real
with weight and warmth and laughter

That will be
my richest moment.