A high chime of a glockenspiel
it rang in my ears, your voice,
cloying and saccarhine,
amused, adamant.

A game of cat and mouse,
that’s what it is, your presence,
reforming the phantom
so often almost forgotten.

I hate that I thought
you’d be different after
knowing the crushing
press of the mouse trap.

Oh, can’t you see?

Half a year’s passed:
I’m doing well,
bearing brusises better
than was possible beside you.

And you burst in (again!),
extending help, kindness
as if you could or care,
as if I’d obviously accept,

as if a ‘we’ still exists,
as if you don’t deny them
when I’m fallen only to
offer when I’m fine.

Oh, can’t you leave?

And I know,
I know, I know, I know
that even by writing this,
I’m losing.

You’re winning, you’re winning,
you’re winning–
is that what you want
so desperately to hear?

Is that what you want
so desperately to report
back home, back where
you are the mouse?