He sleeps and I feel finally twinned.
Every morning since the night
we were born, stillness awakened
him first to find us remade children
swaddled in each other’s sheets.

Today his eyes slowly crack open
and brighten the sun just so,
sifting puffs of air into my mouth
as I chant, “I woke up before you!”
He answers, “Yes?” in that patient

parent-lover tone, not understanding,
but reluctant to suffocate with a “So?”
my obvious enthusiasm as
for a change: “I thought you
rose with the sun,” thinking—forehead

warmed by his chest, his heart throbbing
in barely-audible brushes against
my folded ear—
I suspected you
were the sun
.  But my own sound
pretends just a little longer instead,

“I feel like I just saw Santa Claus.”
Where had I heard that before?
Read it? Perhaps written it myself?
No matter, his groomed toes peeking
from our sheets remind—all that
happened before we were born.

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