They asked me 

What do I see in him? 

What I see in me is a hint of orange, he is a collection of stained glass tiles. He’s like, trains moving against the rail with minuscule shots of electricity. He is the building of real brick houses, no wolves in sight. Something similar to late night arrangements with old friends. Color coordinations on a map. Tea hitting a sore throat, whatever kind. I find black to suit me but he’s the spritz of lemon. I see bridges being built to imitate his stability. Oh no, he’s not stable at all, but what parts of bridges don’t eventually fall down? I’m the river beneath him. He’s the sigh of relief after writing the last thesis. He’s every kiss we ever had, he’s every kiss I’ve had with someone else. And will. 

What do I see in him? 

I see washed over grief. I see dried up snot on brand new pillow cases, not just from me. I see a pile of notes in my phone that I substitute as sent text messages. Unrequited ‘I miss yous.’ He’s a ‘never’ that I’ll say. He is the withering without water, didn’t I mention I was the river? Old age that hits when nothing was done to show for it. Telling people I have someone when I have nothing at all. I’ve saved space for a nothing I see.  I see me. Every time. Glancing over only leads to his leftovers of whatever we used to be. Whispers in the dark that never make it to the other side of the bed. He is missed communication. Bad ranges. And in everything we ever had, he is every sad sad part. And I’ll keep coming back.

What do I see in that?


Jade Brown