There's you and your lover and there's also his idea
of who you are in this moment, and your idea of who
he should be, both of these like both of you but better—
poreless skin, flushed lips, hairless where convenient.
It's awkward, the theatrical way your lover throws back
his head, and should you as well? What if you're facedown?
The other him, the one who never forgets to roll the garbage can
to the curb the night before pickup, he would never let his right eye
droop upon climax, he would never smack your bottom afterwards
and say "good horse." He never has to give her the what for.
Her hair is always clean and she doesn't bring up the past
like a sopping lobster trap every time the two of them
are finally moving forward. She sees a wider vista.
You could watch the two of them all day, those toned limbs,
the faint perfume rising from their skin like ozone after a storm,
like roses bred to excess until the blooms break the canes,
you could watch her raise her hand to touch his face, softly,
as if she cannot believe he shaved for her,
as if there's only just the two of them in the world now.
