You asked me to cover
your wounds and damages,
to sweeten the bitterness,
and harvest the salt
of your tears.
You always saw in me
things that I never could
in myself.
“Bright and warm.”
You said
that I had an aura.
I didn’t tell you
that I
could see yours.
Maybe it was the cowardice in me,
maybe it was conscience.
I made up my mind
in the height
of summer
to tell you,
but you were heading off
to school
so soon,
I couldn’t stand
to cut our time short
by telling you such things.
You left
in September
and I never saw you
until Christmas.
You had changed.
Smiling eyes
disguised
dark circles,
and I could tell
you forced a laugh,
and didn’t eat much,
but you drank more
than you used to.
Phone calls
and emails stopped.
Sparse texts by February
became none by April.
You never came home
that summer
and even though
I blamed myself,
I understood.
Your mother called me
on a weekend
to tell me
what hospital you were in.
I took the time
from work
to see you.
I remember
almost not going in,
but I did
and you saw me.
Immediately
you said,
“Bright and warm”,
even though I felt
the opposite.
I told you what I saw
last year
in the summer,
and you held on to me
and cried
until you were tired.
You slept
in my arms for a while,
and I just sat there
listening to you breathe
and watching
your aura change.
HG – 2021
