Your face first seen by me in a photo sent by a friend
with the question: Is this you? The other person
beside you and the room, strangers to me. Answer:
No? But the mole, the eyes, the odd fiddlehead
curl of the ear. Think: Yes? My ex once ran
after you until he realized: right face, wrong
stare, wrong gait. A loved one snapped
a pic of you in a dollar store as you considered
one empty jar over another. Even her lean.
I haven’t seen you in years. That one fall
evening we passed on the street. I smiled
at you because you looked familiar. Like morning
in the mirror, half asleep. Is it you or is it me
who is me? Who is us? Is it you or is it me who
has changed enough to be lost to the both of us?
Are we the only ones left of us, if only lost to one
another. Together, we are a doubled fingerprint,
repeated snowflake, idea that promises,
You’re the only one. You’re the only one who’s me.
(Title taken from a painting by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.)