For what by Mary Norton Gilonne

Against not being missed,
she leans against the puzzle of him,
tries to be an essential completing piece
before he takes their scene apart
and boxes it darkly up.
Against not being missed,
she uneasily fits his chosen places,
plays with his toys and shares as taught,
learns not to cry at their brittle breakages,
agrees, what’s mine is yours.
Against not being missed,
she lays herself down in the daily column
and waits for his tick, folds herself in corners
ready to be found on tallied days when
she almost believes in love.

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