SKELETON

When I come home in the evening, I rely on its presence. The object waits in secret, cold and wiry. Until I touch it. Then it transforms, becomes a silhouette itself, and the room begins to come alive. The closer I move toward it, the warmer it seems to grow. Sometimes it makes me squint when I approach from the wrong angle. Our interaction is like a dance. I lead, and it follows with a slight stiffness, as if it still had to grow used to my movement. But once we have settled in together, the object becomes a quiet observer of my life at home.