I’m hearing you, I’m seeing you, for sure. I’m peeking through the slightly open door. You sing that awful Katy Perry tune. As if you’re free from shame you just ignore me and the world beyond your own cocoon. You must assume the door is shut as you’re just singing in your hairbrush like a loon. I’m hearing you, I’m seeing you, for sure. But then you start to dance across the floor right out onto the landing corridor. At last you see me watching from our room. You pose for me. I clap. I cheer for more. Still singing to your hairbrush like a loon “Bravo!” I cheer, I whoop, “Bravo! Encore!” You bow towards my light hearted lampoon. Performing through our open bedroom door. I’m hearing you, I’m seeing you, for sure. I’m peeking through the slightly open door. For hours and hours you hide in our bathroom. What is it there that makes you feel secure? An imaginary tropical lagoon? A respite, not to be my paramour? Or waiting ‘til the time is opportune? I’m hearing you, I’m seeing you, for sure. I said, “you are the one that I adore.” I said, “I love you,” on that afternoon. You told me that I’d said those things too soon retreated to your hide and locked the door. You’re singing but I cannot hear the tune. A melancholy song - of that I’m sure. Our final summer night that day in June, I’m kneeling at the keyhole of the door. Now staring at the empty corridor imagining you dancing there once more. Another lonely, winter afternoon. I’m seeing you, just like you were, before. Remembering that slightly open door.