He calls me the female Howard Hughes.
Despite the fact that he almost always knows where to find me.
When he looks at me I can never tell what he is thinking.
As if he is standing, arms crossed against the far wall of his mind.
Vacant rooms spilling between him and whoever would dare tap on the glass.
Sometimes the whole ridiculous, crowded world doesn’t make sense to him.
And he shakes his head to clear it all away.
Trying very hard to ignore what he is seeing.
Playing in his own shadow.
Skillfully slipping the gate.