when you look at me,
who is it you see?
all that I can see
is the me I've always been;
the girl who wanted for so long
to be the one she sees,
standing before me now,
she wanted to be you,
but now she's me,
unsure of what it is
that she wants to see.
she's been trying for so long
to be you and not herself,
thinking she had no self to be
(or at least not one so int'resting,
beautiful as fantasy,
so loved and yet still loving).
you stand before her now,
fantasy as reality,
more than she had wished to be,
better in every way, she thinks,
and there can be no one so lovely.
she can no longer be you, she sees,
for she has you and is pleased;
and I have become who she now is,
no longer what she once had been,
not what she expected herself to be,
better than worse of the in-between,
now something she (and I) had rarely seen:
we (you and I) are, truly, happy.