She pulled the covers
over her head and hid.
She didn’t really want to hide.
She wanted to be found,
but the only way to be found
is first to be lost.
I find her.
Her body heaves. A little lump, she is.
A little lump that whimpers and longs
to be held, even as it kicks
at whatever warmth comes close.
Oh this terrible loneliness.
It becomes a habit. It is so easy
to see the lie of it
as it ravages someone else.
But this morning
when loneliness rose up in myself
I only pretended I wasn’t hiding.
I’ve learned to wear my covers
on the inside. No one notices. Either that,
or perhaps they’ve learned to pretend
to not see that I am a lump,
a little lump just hoping (or is it dreading)
to be found.
