It wasn't ever really my choice.
They each loved me distinctly and without dignity. They each knew the architecture of my spine under the tips of their fingers, but David knew better the curvature of my clavicles, and Christopher the jut of my hipbone under his palm. That my left shoulder could slip out of its socket was David's jurisdiction; Christopher took responsibility for my knuckles, and for the constellations of moles on my back, and for the space where my ear connects to my scalp. David took the nape of my neck. David handled the tendons behind my knee as they flexed. They both had the fold of flesh at my center.

In the dark, I couldn't tell them apart if I tried. And even now, closing my eyes, I can't picture either of their faces. David, dark and curly, and Christopher lean and winding. Yes? No. When I dream, I dream of both them, the two of them occupying the same impossible body. When I remember, I remember them as if I were drunk, double-visioned. They are hidden behind a wall of sleep.

Did David know? Did Christopher? As they laughed and drank and sneaked away to me, did they mention it? Compare notes? Did Christopher avoid the back of my ankle because he knew it was his brother's? Or was that coincidence, that their territories had such even property lines.

They must have. Yes? No.

It wasn't ever really my choice. In the end they made the decision, by both leaving, each with his own specific gait.

(in collaboration with wag scala)

i skipped yesterday's. oops.