Henri stands out in the rain, and for once you think you see him smile;
He turns slow circles over one spot, arms outstretched,
And you find yourself realizing that if anyone else were to watch him with you,
They might finally understand what you mean when you tell them
That when you look at Henri, sometimes you think you see God.

He comes back to meet you, standing with you
Underneath the balcony of your apartment. He's blank as ever -
The mental illness has made him cold, but his temperature hasn't dropped below living yet.
His eyes are chilled with pre-catatonic frost, and he doesn't smile.
The rain has plastered his hair to his scalp, where it clings, oddly colorless
and limp as the strings peeling off of the frayed edges of his mattress.

(You've seen pictures from that past he doesn't really remember,
Where his hair fell in soft waves of light that turned mousy over the winter.
Those pictures remind you why you hate those parts of the years you've been alive,
With all the snow and a lack of sun to reflect off of it. You hate it all
Almost as much as you would hate the rain, if Henri didn't love it so much.)

You sit next to him later that night, after you've mopped the rain off his face.
His eyes are still blank, covered in that glaze that hangs like gossamer over his pupils;
For one fleeting moment you consider calling that place. You know he hates it
but the consideration still hangs over the room, thick and heavy and dark with hate -
For yourself, for him, for his unyielding body and the tight grasp on your hand,
For the lesions you can't see, dug into his brain and still eating him alive like a plague.
You pull out that cell phone he bought you and toy with your speed-dial,
Practically imagining the nurses at the desk wanting to ask you what the matter is,
Telling you they can stay with you, sweetie, if you'll just tell them what's wrong.
You press the button and make the mistake of looking at his face, dull and blank,
His eyes staring at you with a sort of glazed trust - his eyes have always captivated you,
Thick and green and candy-like, even when he's lucid. You only feel slightly guilty
As you hang up on the nurse before she even gets that little I care, really speech out there
And you return to sitting with him, cross-legged, on his bedroom floor.

You know that if he comes out of it this time, he'd do the same for you.