Missing

If I go have a shower,
will you still be here
when I get back?
You hover by the door,
pluck threads from the towel
in your hand.

Each time
in your absence
I toy with the idea
of disappearing.

If I buy breakfast,
you won’t leave
while I’m gone?
Your pockets crackle,
you scoop change from a bowl
on the desk.

I could dress quickly,
click my heels
and leave
no note.

If I make some coffee,
don’t go anywhere
will you?
You scatch your stomach
and scan the floor
for trousers.

I was not prepared
for your reaction
when I hid
in the wardrobe.