The You in Me

I still hear the you in me – in how I pause before punchlines;
crush my knuckles like bubble wrap when I’m embarrassed;
stab my fork through beds of arugula, scraping against the bottom of the bowl (instead of
gingerly plucking the eager, arched leaves on the top).

There’s a stench to this shapeshift,
saturating black cropped tees, accessorized with
cat hair,
and flaky tracks of dried spicy mayo.

I speak slower now, but stammer over simple words. Chraboirled. Mimomsa. Pealse. Paleese.
I say, “It do be like that,” instead of “So it goes.”

And it’s a relief to be new, even if I’m worse – a patchwork of plagiarized mannerisms. It do be
like that, sometimes.

Never fear (love)! I’m not in you anymore.

Someone else is there, in your new, symmetrical smile – and inside your silence.