The Closet

 

The Closet

by Erin Lee

She sits in the closet, waiting for the sound of his car

in the driveway. Rushing to fetch his dinner

and a certain nerve: To fake it just once more.

Sometimes, she brings a book, something just for her;

he never asked what she cares to read about

and wouldn't understand: Not that kind of man.

Pack it tight and fantasize, say it isn't so

it's easier to live a lie than it is to go. Running to get his slippers

and a breath of day: To live free or to fade away.

There's one pink heel behind the rack. She likes to try it on

flex her toe and gigle low. Sometimes, she burps out loud

and is almost able to go: There's a collar round her neck.

Across the street

She fills her closet, thumbing through trashy novels

that kiss the bedroom floor. He laughs and winks

at her: Bringing take out through the door.

Sometimes, she can't help herself, but to run to him;

she always asks how his day was and knows his every whim:

she's studied him. (Because he's studied her).

Hold it close and realize, it is so very clear,

open hopes and shared fears. Flirting in joint dreams

and the taste of moonbeams: To live free and to be.

She steps out of the closet. Back into her life

wearing pink stillettos and a certain glee.

She opens the door: Back into reality.