Another Version By Kathleen Aguero

1.
We meet. We fall in love.
I spend evenings imagining
you leave me for another woman —
thin, beautiful.
I am noble. I wouldn’t fuss.
Go. Leave me for some woman you can push around.
It’s easier to begin with endings I control.

Never let the enemy know what’s going on.
Never give that satisfaction.

2.
Is this what I mean when I say I’m independent —
I only know who I am by knowing I’m not you.
I’m not you or you
or you or you or you.

I daydream happiness —
blurred faces smiling,
moony body without angles,
without motion.
It does not get anything done.

3.
“You are your own worst enemy,”
my mother said.
If I am my own worst enemy, do I go over to the enemy camp to
      make friends
If friends become very good friends, there no longer friends.
They are problems.
They will want something from you —
your time, your toothbrush,
your best stories to tell for their own.
You will not be left alone. You will not
be yourself. You will not get anything done.

4.
We agree to go our separate ways
and stay together.
I went my separate way —
yours, too.

To be all the tyrant that I can,
even looking for another version.