Morning in an unfamiliar place.
I recognize my bed and I know
Who he is but we’ve never been here
Before. Of course I am awake first.
Panic attack behind a shut door.
Now this is a place I’ve been before.
My face in the mirror won’t say why
I can’t just move one day at a time.
Joan Didion on my bedside shelf.
Painting of my soul above my bed.
Last night he saw only my body,
But this room speaks volumes about me.
Back in bed as he begins to stir.
I move away as I wonder if
He solely remembers how I taste.
But he grins and says, “The White Album.”