Without me knowing
- and most certainly without my permission

you left.

I noticed that you weren't hiding behind the first door and
that I couldn't hear your steps or see your face
through the glass of the door,

that door which had always had a soft spot for you
and would let your through
even if you weren't supposed to leave.

I guess that's what happened:
It let you pass.

How rude.

But what stuns me is that

nobody called in to tell me you had run off;
no neighbourly thought told me that they had seen you run past
in boundless glee
or that you had stopped by to say hello to some chatty feeling
always more polite than you ever were to me.

I didn't have to walk my saltstained streets in anger
and what had seemed endless sorrow,
looking for you.

Almost dumbfounded I could keep on talking about you
without having to stop
to see if you were going to show up
to take more of that control that was supposed
to be mine.

It occurs to me now;
I won't have to check that door tonight
to make sure it's locked.