the day i tried on your body,
i left my own
crumpled on the bed
and went for a walk, saw how the world looked to one bigger than i.
and bought a song from the accordion man,
wrapped it in butcher's paper
carried it downtown in a bundle.

and the day i tried on your body, i touched my own lips with curiosity, observed how they moved when i said my name
(which was, of course, yours).
and i shifted in your body and felt my own sliding beneath: an old log peeking out from underwater.

then i made to return your body, once i had finished my errands, only to find you waiting for me, solid and inexplicable, crumpled on the bed in just that way so you could fit in mine.
and you touched your own lips with curiosity,
observed how they moved when you said my name
(which was, of course, yours).