Enroute to Camden House

I dreamt of him often whilst slumbering atop some endlessly rocking camel, but in those faraway imaginings he never spoke. There was no need. His eloquent eyebrows semaphored his delight and dismay and astonishment, as they had always done when I recounted some solitary adventure beside the fire at Baker Street.

But now he sits beside me in truth, his honest features fashioned into a polite mask, those mute informants forever gathered to a line of pain carved between them. He voices everything that I could wish, protestations of forgiveness and joy, but his eyes are still searching for ghosts.

Enroute to Camden House

I dreamt of him often whilst slumbering atop some endlessly rocking camel, but in those faraway imaginings he never spoke. There was no need. His eloquent eyebrows semaphored his delight and dismay and astonishment, as they had always done when I recounted some solitary adventure beside the fire at Baker Street.

But now he sits beside me in truth, his honest features fashioned into a polite mask, those mute informants forever gathered to a line of pain carved between them. He voices everything that I could wish, protestations of forgiveness and joy, but his eyes are still searching for ghosts.