When he says my name,
which girl, which version does he mean?
Has he forgotten her, or does he still know her well enough
for us to be parts of the same body that won't ever touch,
questioning the purpose of a toe or an eyebrow.
When he reaches for me, does he reach for a future,
or a past not long gone, still evaporating,
condensation on the window
broken by childish doodles.
Emma twists and dances on his tongue,
he whispers it like it actually belongs to me,
yet I wish he wouldn't say it at all.
His lips move apart like I am the ballerina
and not the girl without a drive,
no motivation, no shot.
He tells me things. Maybe they're new.
Maybe it's the same.
Maybe he just recycles his ideas like paper,
not noticing I get cut every time I flip the page.
The pages full of inside jokes
I might have the meanings for,
I might have laughed at before,
yet I'd rather not know
which Emma he made them for.