Does she know that when you sleep, your left leg twitches?
And does she know that you prefer equal amounts of peanut butter and jelly on your sandwiches?
Does she know that you make promises you can't keep?
Does she know every single way to touch you and every moment you've ever cried because of your father?
Does she know we ****** in the backseat of your car?
The front seat?
Your bed, couch, grandparents counter, stairs, every place you could lock doors and call me yours?
Does she know you like forehead kisses?
And does she know you promised me infinity over and over like they were the last words you would ever speak?
Does she know that you hate being told you're just like your father?
And does she know all the things that I do?
Or have you hidden them away?
And has she excavated who you are,
from the roots of where you lock yourself away?
Does she know that you hate the way poetry comes out of your mouth,
and that you love to write love letters?
Does she know you?
Or are you as happy as you're pretending to be?