Z.

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.

But you–

You understood me.

 

Thank you for being my friend and loving me as I am.

 

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