You are the One

Cold rain has turned the baby's first snowman into
an abstract form, hinting at Munch's The Scream.
A faded receipt falls from an anthology of poems,
telling me that it was purchased on April, can't
make out the date, 2000. I was already drinking
green tea with soy milk faithfully each morning
then. It is nice to think, a decade later, that some
aspects of my personality are so well formed that
even the man who dated me back in February
of 2002 can feel like he has this piece of me, this
knowing that I might still be sitting in a rocking
chair at 6:45 am each day, drinking my soy tea
concoction, which he tried to replicate and only
managed to receive a prompt break-up notice
because I don't want to be copied. I don't want
to be your delicate little flower that you watch
sleeping each night. I am the woman who can
bleed all over the sheets and then sleep in them
unwashed for days without bother. And you are
the man who lets me; this one who I married.
You will never share my green tea; firmly set
on your own chai (no water) latte. You know
you are the best partner for me and will never
tell me that I am a delicate flower, while leaving
me alone to push my car out of the snow bank
because you are angry that I am leaving you too
soon in the morning.  Instead you are the one
who hid behind a fence to make sure I could get
my car off of the tight parking spot on the hill,
and only after seeing that I was stuck, appeared
to help me out of the my bind. You are the one
who will never have to steal my favorite shirt,
inadvertently left at your house one night,
telling me you no longer have it when I break-up
so that you can cling to this one small piece, like
a receipt found in a book, like a memory of a
Scandinavian painting that you saw with me in
a museum,
once.