Metamorphosis

I worry. No one knows what is happening to me.
No one has noticed I am changing.
I read kafka's metamorphosis once. Wrote a paper on it too.
Something along those lines, but my worry is less existential and symbolic.
It's mundane.

Am just worried about things like my hair colour.
I wonder if anyone noticed that its different.

My little friend noticed a mole in my eye the other day.
I was glad. It's new.

I wonder if I should point out
that I am wearing a new eye shadow or perfume.

I worry people will forget that i love to be cuddled to sleep.
More worried that I am too.

I have already forgotten sitting on laps, breakfasts, being called silly names.

I don't think anyone has taken a picture of me in a long time.
Not even on new mobilephones.

I am being lost.
Fading into the background.
Obliterated by dancing figures in the profit sheets,
the din of local train, by alcohol numbness and cigarette haze.

Focus now. Zoom in please.
I am here. Hold me. Don't let me go. In the corner of your eye. Don't blink.
Just behind your back. Turn Around.

A little to your side.
Here I am ... a gaze beyond your deaf stare and a sweet nothing whisper beyond your blank ear.

Part of all the bad things you don't want. Scandals. Guilt. Mistake. Moneylessness. Homelessness.

Part of all the good on your backburner. Your welling love. Your poetry. Your madness. Your passion.

I am worried.
You are losing yourself.
I see from the corner of the eye. The sofa between us growing.