If I were her and she were me,
perhaps nothing would be different
about that time the two of us met.
We would each assume with a touch of pity
that the other was adorably naive
in her opinion of you and her together.

If I were her and she were me,
she would find three strands of my hair tangled in your sheets
and her chest would sting with regret as she hashed and rehashed
every imagined detail that began to crystallize.

If I were her and she were me,
she would not be able to look at you for very long at all
without the consuming thought of
you looking at me (in an identical or different fashion)
bleeding in.

If I were her and she were me,
she would never touch the subject,
never approach it, never cross it;
instead, she would let her heart fill up with you anyway,
and I would be smart.