I tell people I “lost”you, as if I left you at the busy bar or let go of your hand in the airport terminal. As if you’d fallen off the table and slipped through the gap between the floorboards or leapt from my pocket at the end of the garden. Tucked yourself beneath the sofa, forgetting to come out again.
I tell them you slipped away, as if I could pluck you from that gap in the floor, pull you out from the brambles. Like a jigsaw piece you’d surface again, as if you were always there, just temporarily misplaced.