I do not know why
but sometimes I am cellophane

my skin is all crumpled up
and you think you can see right through.
I choked your heart so you cut me away
with kitchen scissors and left me
on the sideboard to biodegrade.

I was too trapped inside
the creases of your toes
to get up and go home.

All I wanted was to shuffle up your leg
and take comfort in your shirt pocket,
so I could hear each rhythmic contraction
for myself -

but this is impossible when your flimsy hands
are no longer cup-shaped
to catch the overflow of words
cling-filmed to my throat, leaving me
with not much air exchange -
only shallow dimples and a spasmodic cough.

The dust coated bulb buzzes slightly from above,
dimming slowly until my eyes give up on their search -
for you are not hidden inside the soup pan
or sleeping in the cutlery draw
spoon-shaped, you are not behind 5 days worth
of milk beside the door, bottled in.

You must not be coming back
and I always learn these things
the hard way.