we’re sitting on the floor of your freshman dorm eating dinner, silence bleeding from our mouths. the tension between us like a painting waiting to dry. our faces wet with ache and runny watercolor. it’s winter. snow is burying the ground like a dead body and wind is howling outside like a widow’s grief and what i’m trying to say is that it was so cold out that all you could think about was death. you couldn’t speak to me in between bites of marinated tofu and mushy dining hall rice. i told you i’m sorry before i knew what i was apologizing for. before i knew your grief took the shape of an alternate universe in which you don’t live past 18. before you told me about the ambulances, the trail of blood, and the look on your parents’ faces when they found you covered in what keeps you alive. before i realized the reason you always wear long sleeves. before i realized there’s an alternate version of this story where i never met you in our college literature class and you never fell asleep in my bed as i read poetry to you and i never told you i love you because in this version there is no you. before you told me that sometimes it feels like being alive with scarred arms and hospital memories is somehow worse than not being alive at all. before i told you i was never religious but the universe conspiring to keep you alive makes me believe in a god. before you told me that the hardest part about living is finding reasons not to die. before i told you i love you. i’m glad you exist.¹
¹ Reimagining of the line “I love you. I’m glad I exist” from Wendy Cope’s poem “The Orange.”
