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. 

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