Seeker

I lick my shoulder. Salty.

A tenderness for myself awakens as I picture myself wandering alone all day through the overgrown courtyards of my hometown. My hands smell of iron from the playgrounds and dust, a stray curl sticks to my cheek.

I bring the camera close to my face,

squint my eye,

stand on both feet, surrounded by yellow buildings,

the sounds

of play—but where are my friends?

“Mom’s at the summer house, the key’s on the table…”

In the next room, the television hisses. My daytime outfit, meant for tram rides, rests in the shade on the back of a chair. Strange—once, the television seemed harmless.

Their closeness to the grown-ups wasn’t as frightening then, because it meant we could stay outside a little longer.

My younger sister’s almond-shaped eyes shine. She loves the bright and the digital, but from a distance, I see—summer has made her just like me all those years ago. No phone, bare, sun-kissed knees.

I used to think intimacy was something about lace lingerie, but now I know—it’s in how the streetlights don’t turn on right away at dusk, leaving you hidden within the city’s hush.

I used to wonder—

what will remain of me

when I grow up?

I sit in the courtyard. My friends are gone. I don’t want to go home. The sun is white, barely golden, and I sit there, with nothing left but this—

and though I feel I should want something else,

there is me, and there is the world.