When He Sees You, When I See You

When he sees you,
he doesn’t welcome you
with open arms
like a cathedral
in search of hope.

When you dream,
he doesn’t ask
how the color red tasted,
or how you’ve traversed
the many things
you keep to yourself.

He turns his back
and sleeps facing the wall
on the nights
you couldn’t sleep.

When you open up,
he thinks in terms of presence
forgetting your grandma’s name,
all of the things
that made you.

He doesn’t know
that your smile,
as well as your laugh,
has levels
one for those closest to you,
and another
for when you block out the world.
Past your mascara,
past your necklaces
and earrings
a silence
your hands
are very comfortable with.

No matter
how much they want to travel.
Some apologies
are more open
than others,
regardless
how much mascara you wear
or even if it runs.

When you dream,
when I dream,
I see past all your makeup.

Not to fix you.
Not to remember
all of the things
you tell me.
But to see you.
Just as you are.