The art of losing, and all it's tentacles.

I bite
my lip
as I think,
I wish I could sound


detached
from you.


I wish you were a pair of keys,
the sunglasses already on my head or
a note attached to
the fridge I miss completely in a rush
out the

door.


So that coming home, after the day being what it was,
you'd watch me
ever so
secretly

from your spot under the counter or fridge or sofa,

watch me sidle through the door, exhausted,
slip off my shoes,
and find somewhere to rest.

Peeking from your spot, seeing my tired eyes and wilting hands,
my aging at work.
And you'd wish that
you were

in
my
hands.