I am you and you are me,
but not exactly the way someone
stares into a shallow pool,
the water dotted orange with pollen.
It hasn’t always been this way.
This idea came to me the other day
alone in your driver’s seat,
sitting deep in the indent.
There were no pedestrians hurrying by,
no cars driving past to speak of,
trucks, rushing flashes, in the distance.
Near me only the growing shadows of trees.
And I thought of you,
or at least the you I used to know,
in your bed under worn, earthy sheets
and the buzzing air conditioner hanging on to the window.
Every morning curling into you,
watching you not sleep
with your eyes closed,
waiting for you to sit up, say it’s time.
But you never did.
It always had to be me impatiently humming something or
shuffling my legs around, covers becoming a tangled mess
as yet another train rattled down the street.
And I think of my boys now
wondering if they, too, purposely
curve and unfurl thin legs around me
sucking their long fingers, pause, then begin again.
The day just starting, light moving up the wall
because I know they’re waiting, as they lay
for me to say,
so what do you want for breakfast.
And now I understand why you
kept your eyes closed
and let me watch you
Jennifer Román lives in New Jersey with her husband, identical twin boys and her first-born, Chewbacca the Cockapoo. As a former English teacher and current SAHM, she’s attempting to find time for the first love she can remember and is excited to share her many thoughts and opinions with the world.