I see a figure standing in the door
When I see your trademark white shirt
I know it can only be you
I sigh when you spot me and raise your hand with a grin
Even at my busiest, we both know I won't turn you away

I hear the rustle of your white clothes and bandages as we walk
Why do you always wear the same ones, I wonder
Is it because you are lazy and don't care that it's tacky?
Or is it because you're pressed for money, like the rest of us?
I wouldn't ever want you to hear this, but I do worry about you

The smell of white peach tea permeates the air of the small room we step into
I had forgotten it as my day became full with patients
You sniff the air and ask what the smell is
An odd expression crosses your face when I explain that it is imported
Or perhaps it is because I actually offered to fix a cup for you

We both take a slow sip from our white cups
The taste is sweet, but leaves my mouth dry
It is very different from the bitter taste of green tea we usually drink
In your usual blunt way, you tell me that you don't like this new tea
In a rare instance of amity, I openly agree with you

Finally I set to unwrap your dirty bandages
I feel an old wound as I run my fingers over your hand
I am confused when I realize it is the scar you recieved for saving me
I touch the white scar reverently and realize something
I've never thanked you for that have I?

You shift your hand and the moment is broken
I briskly remind you of how you are failing to properly care for your hand
I try to ignore the nagging of guilt my revalation has brought me
Finally we both run out of excuses for you to stay
I touch your hand as you turn to leave

"Your hand, it will always be good"
That is all I say before I release you
And yet

The way you look at our hands
The flutter of the "Aku"
As you walk out the door

For now, it is enough