as I looked at him,
subtle and delicate,
a pulse beneath the aqueous humor
that overlapped him in layers,
like the see-through pages
that slid against each other
in the encyclopaedia's anatomy section
revealing skin, muscle, organs, and bone
peeking out, one behind the other,
and, as precious as it may seem,
I beheld it.
This is what years do.
I am allowed to witness
his subterranean movements,
even when they catch him wide-eyed and sweating,
as I watch him through the night.