At first, we cannot see ourselves
weeping over a body,
let alone feeding one,
owning one,
being one. Then we come to know
the gauzy feeling
of sleep,
the sound of the rain
that keeps beating
on the ceiling,
the almost-
numb tingling buzz
of what busy is.
Now, we understand
when we say
we still miss them,
we don't really mean them;
what we really mean
is us—
the us that didn't yet
know how to lose,
the us
we only just discovered
when we met.
