Transition

We were 18 changing people

mixed up in 2 bodies,

me with 17 faces and you 1

on Tuesdays,

and on Fridays

you with 16 and me 2.

But that’s no more

than the toast

we eat with jam,

than the coffee

we drink with cream,

the cups we hold

in cold hands

full of unthoughtof words

trying to move, comfortable

within the stairwell

you’d never want

to let go in,

afraid to be finished

while still in transition

from a lower place to higher,

high to low,

and this is me

stealing your idea,

using you for

the 2 empty cups

of your worth.