On Being Seen
You don’t know this, but you were the first.
To fully see me, and love me anyway.
Even though I can be a snob about a million things.
Even though I’m messy.
Even though I kill plants sometimes.
Even though I corrected your grammar. (I’m really sorry I corrected your grammar.)
I remember the night we were in your dark room, and I was suddenly sad. Sad enough to cry.
Another man would have called me crazy. Too emotional.
Another man would have asked why, and made it about him.
“I didn’t even do anything,” he would have said.
But you. You just held me close, kissed my forehead, and made it ok.
You just accepted my sadness, without any explanation.
I wonder if you remember.
I’m writing to thank you.
And to tell you that I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.
I don’t know why, but I always have to keep moving.
You didn’t do anything wrong.
I know there’s a woman out there with a heart that’s as generous as yours.
She will see you fully, and love you in the perfect way that you loved me.
Thank you for seeing me. I will always be grateful.