Selfish place

One’s self is a selfish place. Each time you are around, there’s no space for me on the couch.
I’m only standing next to you; before you; or in the back,
staring at the back of your head, smelling the dust on your hair.

My acres melt, attached to you. I’m a shadow of my own self. When you leave me, I breathe.
I inhale, I exhale deep, trying to get myself back together. I never make it.
You always come back first, before I get myself together.

And then I’m taking my place behind you; or next to you. Or before you.
You make me say all the words I hate; you make me want the undone, the unthinkable;
You make me be the opposite of what I am. Or you, is who I am?

But my shape’s always dull, my image fainted like standing behind a window and outside it’s raining,
water running down the glass, dim lights on the streets.

When you are back, I try to remember me. I try not to forget. I try not to lose me.
When you leave me, you take a piece of me with you.
And I still don’t know your name.