things i’d tell them about you

being able to recognize that it was this time 365 times ago

when i finally looked at you—like really looked at you

not the “let me check before heading out” or

“oh that’s her in the zoom window”—today, 365 days ago

i realized you exist

now perhaps since our reconnection, i’ve been bombarded with reflection

but i’ve accepted that that’s just how you are

you’re loud and quiet—sometimes too quiet or a whole crowd in a corduroy jumpsuit, rarely in between

—and you make small things seem like big elephants singing alone at concerts the way you do

the run-on sentences you seem to just keep in your back pocket and the times your hands find

said back pocket, knowing that the world can get a little too much, even for you

lately i’ve seen the weight you carry on your back—though i’ve carried most of it before

—seeing the bubble wrapped, leather strapped cargo that is your mind is both terrifying and

breathtaking assurance that people recognize

how they are just as much of the universe as the universe is of them

and i don’t know where we’ll be this time next 365 times away

but i read what you wrote to me today, 365 days before

and i know that i don’t always sleep before i see the sun

or stop enough to differentiate what i want and who i am

but when i remember to—

that is when i know that i exist

—i want to make sure that you are there too

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