Crouching in the closet restless with the thrill of being found,
I hear the sounds of others echoing throughout the house;
the slam of a cupboard door, ostrich-head level with the
space beneath the sofa, small hands tapping shoulders. Tag.
You know where I am, holding my schedule in your hand mapped
out in the app we share; a litany of opportunities to “just pop in”.
So I wait, skipping dinner to suggest we grab some later, letting
the hunger gnaw and wrestle with my insides before surrendering
to a 10PM meal deal eaten at the bus stop in defeat. I refresh
our shared pages, dressed in black like I’m in mourning.
With knees on the hardwood floor of the wardrobe, my bladder aches
against my legs until I could burst with it. The air sours with the sweat
of this small body bent like a cursive letter, learning its limits.
The quiet hum of anticipation, desperately thinking of anything else.
But I ruin my own absence, a pestered presence in the background
announcing myself: I’m here. Until I hear the footsteps echoing
on the stairs, panting on the landing as you ascend. I'm here. Large hands
rattling the door, grabbing my shoulders. I give myself away so easily.