Twins

We were the same,
for decades
and days
we were interchangeable.
Soap-sud mohawks
in the bath.
Pink watermelon stains
on white t-shirts.

The same
in grainy photographs.
Until the sameness faded
and the polaroid paper edges
got sunburnt.
Like baby noses
under floppy hats.

The small rips
and tears
and swirling hubcaps
of an interstate
collision pushed to the
median.
The same
on one stretcher
pump bags filling our 
baby lungs.

It took a long time,
to find the photos
and remember your face again,
and to hear mama choke
when I asked
"why are there two of me?
Where did the other me go?"