11: Eleven

If you think that I don’t think about how else this could have gone…you don’t know me that well.

And I think you know me; I’m not so hard to know.

If you don’t think I wonder which shade and shape of couch I’d fall asleep on after the kids (let’s be real—the pup, perhaps? A turtle or goldfish?) went to bed (finally…and most likely after a battle— because they are children (or pets) of late-night folk), you think you know me, but you don’t.

But I think you know me…

If you think I don’t spend many minutes of every day (many days; many more) recalling the lines of your face and how they would have deepened; not whether but when you’d have switched with me from Blackberry to iPhone; how disinterested we’d both be in the Superbowl (except for the snacks and commercials); the places we’d plan to vacation someday and the places we’d actually go…you don’t know me very well.

But you know me; you do.

Eleven years gone by in a flash

of every emotional shade    

but the shades produced with you.

The color of eleven is the Color of You.

I know you knew me.

I think you know me.

And you know I do.