Hips
“I know her,
she knows me.
I know her favorite color, what books she reads, what she would choose on Netflix.” She knew what he assumed.
But with a slow slide of her hip, a memory in a mirror,
a serpentine arm motion
as she made coffee in the morning by herself,
did he know?
Would he ever know everything?
If he didn’t know the story behind these hips, and the motion that used to flow so easily, of days listening to
Habibi-Ya-Einy and Enta Omri
and the jingle of small coins clinking together on a bright scarf,
how could he?
What is the question you ask, to get to this answer?
To the “I used to, it used to be, I wanted to become”, when it is no more?
Did it even count anymore?
What else would become an “I used to”?
She couldn’t punish him for not knowing, for not asking,
but she caught herself waking up
in the middle of the night, looking over, and whispering,
“You don’t know me”.
Feedback welcome! This is part of Fresh Darlings Collab, Prompt #3.
