Before, I couldn’t see you. I would have written about your eyes Your smile Or your hair. All cliche, all flat. I couldn’t write. I tried. Now I see you. I see a green mantis I see your freckled patina in that photo with the perfect light I see you engaging the waiter in conversation I see your long limbs loosely crossed, Cradling your herbal tea and segmenting your orange. The soft nape of your neck is in my dreams I see you swimming ahead in the river, I see your joy in that, and remember me needing to turn back. I see us crouched on the railway sleeper, the last of the sun crossing us While the washing up waits, We sit looking back at your home. I see the young and sexless person you told me about your nose in a book on the family holiday. I see the flicker of self-doubt the slow rising tear that doesn’t spill over being all things, mother, worker, friend, lover. I see all the things you are not that I projected onto you Now I see you.