I don’t have fingers and toes enough to count people who know me as an idea–
Fashion me in fiction
because reality is a heavier matter.
To them, I am a caricature.
You get me.
I met you and before the outrage and opulence,
You understood the color of my soul.
There is a subtle addiction to those who recognize our spirits,
Even when I worry it’s run away from me.
You catch it.
Your sound is unencumbered violins,
Hurried dissonance followed by velvet smooth.
Your smell is something sweet from the kitchen as I sit in the living room–
tantalized even from afar.
Your heart proceeds everything else about you,
magnanimous enough that it makes me softer.
I know what it’s like to be regarded as a work of fiction–
To hear yourself as an idea rather than person.
You understood me.
Thank you for being my friend and loving me as I am.