When we sit close enough to
one another, I can see myself
reflected through your eyes, and I start to wonder
how you see me,
with how I cannot cross my legs for too long
or they fall asleep,
or how my right eye wanders occasionally,
(though you never make jokes about it)
or how when I smile, it’s rather slow at first,
but then it’s teeth and all, my eyes crinkling round
the edges.

Who exactly have you turned me into? I barely
recognize myself when I brush my teeth in the morning,
this creature with rounder eyes and perpetually
messy hair and new laugh lines
etched into her cheeks stares back at me.
I speak softer on the phone when you call,
go to bed sooner to wake with the dawn,
traipse about the house in a daze.

And it’s about now, when I’ve made the drive
home and I’m on my side of
the bed, that I realize I hate
sleeping alone.