I make myself small, I bend and contort.
Crawling into the crevices and corners of your cozy north London flat. I settle amongst the plants you care so deeply for, staying still until you call for me.
if you call for me.
I apologize, move slowly, softly and without intention. As the sun sets in the early evening, I reach out for you but -
I wriggle and squirm in your arms at night because there is no comfort there.  
I remember how we said no matter where we were, we would be looking at the same moon each night.
It is September, and I am a tender object living in your house.
I fight every urge my heart has to feel loved –
as if I wasn’t a heavenly body worth praising.