What Do I Mean to You?

nothing, dearest.

I saw a post:

“Tell me about her. I’ll delete this soon.”

I spent minutes

and couldn’t write a word.

What do I mean to you?

No—

what do you mean to me?

You are the words

stuck in my mouth.

The days

that breeze past the back of my mind.

The light

that lingers in the corner of the room.

You mean to me

every little thing—

faint,

almost insignificant,

yet holding the most weight.

You are to me

like the sun to the earth:

a constant need,

even as it waits anxiously.

The absence aches.

The return—

a full awakening,

one it shares with all its inhabitants

in the fullness of joy.

You are what I hold

but do not own.

You are my old,

and what’s new

is that you should be my new.

Listen—

the birds sing your name again.

Listen, once more—

the crickets chant in the night,

praising you,

choristers of darkness

that know your worth.

Look—this time,

there is the moon.

That seat belongs to you.

It hangs there,

lonely,

aloof,

because you're absent.

Here,

with me,

without me—

gone from your throne.

And see—

the clear water ripples,

gentle and alive.

Your ethereality dances on its surface.

You mean to me

what words fail to hold.

Even more so now,

as I’ve lost my ability to write.

You mean to me.

But what do I mean to you?

Nothing, Oreoluwa.

I’ve heard you say you love me—

but not with conviction.

I’ve heard you say you love me—

but it feels like you love the idea of me.

Not me.

Oreoluwa,

you mean to me.

But what do I mean

to you?