During the seven years I’ve known you,
We spent five wandering the same halls not pondering each other’s existence.

Months of speaking and then,
I see you again.
But the light shines on you so much softer.  It is bright and the rest of the room seems dim.

Seven years of never speaking,
and you tell me you want to see what my insides look like.
Months of speaking and I hand you the scalpel myself and consent to a game of operation.

Four years of never seeing you,
I see you again and question how I did not miss you before.

When you open up my chest,
You string up fairy lights along my rib cage and sew me back up.

I wonder why you never asked about the butterflies in my stomach, but maybe you chose not to ponder their existence.

— p.d.e