When we would lie side by side in the bed we mirrored each other. The curve of our breasts, the roundness of our tummies one way, our hips the other.
We’d run our hands over the other, knowing the other was knowing the self. I wondered if it was a form of narcissism.
We thought we were the same size, but when you took your hand and placed it level with my palm your fingers had tip over the length of mine, and our feet the same as well, your toes peeping over the top of mine. We suspected that your head might end a few inches after mine did, but after the shock of the hands and feet we didn’t want to measure it.
Despite this betrayal the stars had aligned in all other ways and I swear that we were even born on the same day.
When we kissed, was that your tongue in my mouth, or my tongue in yours? Were those your teeth biting on my bottom lip, or mine on yours? Was that me or you reflected in the eyes in front?
For years we stayed and loved and danced this way. We moulded the one out of the other, in our image, with love.
Then one day a betrayal worse than the hands and feet happened. Your heart shifted its usual pattern. The one element crucial to the symmetry we had spent so much time perfecting had altered; and my heart broke when yours did not.