Drifting through rooms of unmade beds,
blankets pushed aside,
single socks hiding.
Ball still rolling towards a corner.
Echoes behind closed doors
I expectantly open.
Sense the closing of exits as I enter.

No one there, though cat,
with her six senses and seven lives
follows expectantly,
seeking, like me.
Meowing a question,
sniffing the warm, head-shaped indentation in a pillow.

I wake,
and you’re already gone.

Dhaka 2015

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