her own room

I have waited for her to have her own room,

her own bed, her own chair and dresser,

a stand for independence holding her music,

a print that she loves on her wall,

perhaps an elephant.

her clothes will be strewn across the floor

because she left them there, intentionally.

I have my own room, he seldom ventures

here, uninvited, even if I do love him.

my stand for independence holds sonatas

by Bach and tangos by Piazzolla.

I leave my clothes strewn on the floor

because I can.

there is an empty space on my wall where an

elephant used to stare at me with her 

wise eyes