I hold my breath. From across the empty soccer field

by our apartment complex on Wednesday afternoon 

I could have sworn I saw the exact outlines of a body 

I used to memorize by heart— slender-legged, poor 

posture, meandering through the chemically treated

grass with no sense of direction. You used to pace 

the forest just thinking. About what? I’d ask you, 

after you’d disappear for hours without warning.

Nothing really, you’d say, and shrug your shoulders

far too casually for me to believe. But those nights,

playing with your pale blond baby hairs and forcing

you to guess the words I’d write sloppily on your back

with my fingertips (the answer was always I love you),

I didn’t feel the need to know what you were thinking. 

It’s funny how Nothing really suffices until it doesn’t.

Until I’m squinting my eyes from a hundred feet away,

wondering if the dimensions of the wandering man

match yours. But the mathematics are always a little

bit skewed. He’s either too tall or not tall enough,

sporting an outfit you’d never wear. Tell me, do you 

ever try to find me in the shadows of other people?

Do you hold your breath until you’re wrong, too?