I remember the day I learned your last name.
Sometimes I wish I hadn’t,
so I could keep pretending like it wasn’t your name that day.
Because before then,
you had barely met me,
and you read me like a bedtime story.
Each of my complexities
turned into a toddler’s words in a pretty disguise.
With each meaningless word I spoke,
you knew me.
You guessed my secrets,
recited my dreams,
drew my memories,
like in some other life,
we did it all together.
Then I saw your name
in the wrong section of the local paper.