I want to think of something
besides you. I want my dreams
to be delusive, not serving
as a reminder of the inevitable 
disgust I’ll see in your eyes,
the eyes that separate us. Mine
are our father’s blue. Yours,
damp-oak brown. They’re warm.
I’m not ready for them to turn. 

Please love me like our sister. 
I know I will never be her, and
I will never try to be, but
when you tilt your head and squint
your eyes, our laughs blend.
And when you close them completely,
you hear his, too. How do you laugh?
I hope I get to hear it at least once.