The first sign: his stepping into the puddle, not over it. That he wanted to lose himself inside of someone else and would pull it out if invited to; if, as though satisfaction, its promised arrival, was enough to believe in—of course he would show someone who said sweetly, seeing in him something in need of a soft voice, How beautiful is it? Show me. And the unzipping would be brief. The pull down of an elastic band would become his life story, dividing him into what should be left behind and what is left behind but continues to follow. I’ve forgotten already how it really ends. But here, in my hand. Look. Room enough for you to, inside, make a home. I’ve split myself from myself like a man who wants to disappear. Slowly, in successive tugs, I’ll show you how. I’ll show you.