The Wait

My world shrinks into a one bedroom flat,
The outside summarized in his touch,
I squint to feel it better,
Tense, locked up.
His feelings are my command,
Where he stands, wet from the rain –
Must have rained then.
Pitter-patter of the remains on the tiles,
Except there is no sound on the silent tiles.
I imagine it.
There is nothing much to do in this godforsaken single room,
Except wait for him to feed me his scrapes of the outside.
I've not aged for what must have been ages.
Him? He is a different man.
Day in, day out he changes.
Out the door into uncertainty, then in again, to me.
Where I am uncertain of his disposition.
Different day, different man.
I've stayed the same, only less.
I am nothing more than my reaction to him,
When he leaves, when he returns.
Another wintery day it seems, today,
There are puddles of wet, scrapes of outside,
remnants of a lovelier time,
the sound I imagine.