I follow you in through your front door
and shadow you from room to room.
I see you pick your nose and scratch
your intimate places. Hear you
speak aloud to empty air,
to the blank space between the TV
and your eyes, to the cat
with a secret life of its own.
Watch you eat junk food
without joy, cold concoctions
straight from the fridge:
ice cream, chocolate, biscuits, crisps,
while curled up on the couch
or sitting up in bed.
Pick your spots / cover them
with crap that cracks when you cry
for no apparent reason, or when
you pluck a stubborn hair.
I stand next to you in the shower
and envy your soap dissolving
into froth and rinsing off your curves.
Wonder at the way you flick a towel
into a turban, then twirl naked,
striking poses and looking for cellulite.
I do not shy away as you strain
upon the toilet bowl, nor do I yawn
at all the boring tasks
that must be done. In your faded jeans
and comfy jumper, your hair tied back
with an elastic band, you wash
and wipe and mop and scrub.
You nurse a cup of tea and gaze
at nothing. Glance at the news.
Sometimes puff a guilty cigarette.
And when you sleep, though I cannot
see you, I linger by your bedside
and listen to your breathing. Imagine
your dreams: are you invisible, too?
