You.

Last weekend,
when everything had calmed down,
you--you left me a half-gallon of Graham Canyon in the freezer at work
and I bought a fresh pizza on the way to the theater, mouth watering at the combination.
Pepperoni, with garlic dipping sauce I'd probably put on waffles it's so good

I  clocked in, punching my yellow striped card
And you--you smiled brightly down and let me talk to you about yoga, now that we went together,
and you noticed my greasy cardboard box
jumping enthusiastically into an explanation of the pizza oven you built in your backyard

My sandals were unbuckled
and you--you invited me out to the raining parking lot
to run my hand over the smooth black shell of your new car
and laugh excitedly and nod my approval
and after that
I clutched the warm pizza box to my chest, the ice cream freezing under one armpit,
gripping a fistful of spoons
and tromped down to the office I work in, and plopped onto the carpet
in a safe space between the desk and the wall, next to the mirror

And you--you followed me quietly down to the basement, and sat on the other side of my pizza
as I wolfed it down, cross-legged on the carpet
and you ate my crusts and asked me how I was
And you--you sat in the computer chair next to us, eating spoonfuls of ice cream from the carton
and laughing.

I looked at myself in the wall-sized mirror next to me, marinara in the corners of my mouth, ice cream in the lines between my fingers, observing myself, and I thought
 You--you are lucky.