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.