When I left home
you slipped into my suitcase
and stitched yourself on my shadow
You were the quiet hum in the dark
and the sliver of light piercing through my window.
You were the reflection in mirrors and water
in my face was yours,
standing and staring
scolding and questioning
angry at being left alone.
When I left home,
I didn’t,
I was only you in another room.
June 2004
