I have never held you,
but at night when I am drifting off --
My arm is wrapped around you,
your back pressed to my chest.
My lips rest gently against your
shoulder as you sleep.
The baby is beside you.
My hand finds the cup of his thigh.
I remember, from watching you rest
on the way to the waterfall,
that your forehead twitches.
His does too.
I remember who we were last March.
And last July. And seven years ago.
You remember who you ran away
from in Maine.
I am not her.
I am not the woman that you
didn't say goodbye to.
That you didn't text
before you disappeared.
I am the woman who loves you.
Even after all of those question marks.
Even after all of these commas.
I am older, and wiser, and more patient.
I am a lot of things, and become
something newer everyday.
I am someone that you could be proud of.
That he could be proud of.
I am a history of hanging on,
and sweet, run on, over-exaggerated,
poetically justified sentences.
I am the one you never see, period.