around your new kitchen.
How you have one sponge for paint
and another for dishes.
I still love to cook for you,
but it's easiest when I force myself to forget
that it's your apartment, not ours.
Even though my inner Julia likes to think of it
as my second kitchen.
Perhaps the maid's kitchen.
The one without a butter dish (or ziplock bags).
The place I'm keeping the
unused pots and pans that used to sit in
The pans that burn
Like you do
Unlike my kitchen,
(the one that used to be ours),
yours has a mirror fit for a ballet studio.
Which is good for checking out my dance moves
and making sure my skirt isn't too short
(it always is),
but best for watching your gravity
shift into mine
when I'm baking pie in my green jeans.
I don't even eat pie.
And you still don't have a trash can,
but that mirror tells me
you've never been able to say.