in everybody else’s eyes | poem

25 Mar, 2025

♪: constellations by jade lemac (piano ver.)

my sister told me
she saw you reach for me
in your sleep.

she said your fingers curled soft at first,
like they were brushing the hem
of something fragile —
but then they clenched. tight.
like you were holding on for dear life,
knuckles pale in the half-light
of her own bedroom,
gripping my arm like a man
slipping underwater
and mistaking me for air.
i asked her if you looked peaceful.
she said no.
she said you looked like
you were drowning.

she said it quietly, like it was
something she shouldn’t have seen,
as if the memory of it
still felt like trespassing.
and she hates you now.
hates you enough that
i think it makes her sick
to see me dig you up like this.
but that night, she said it gently,
and i wanted to ask her why she waited
until now to tell me.
but maybe i already knew.
maybe she thought i wasn’t ready
to know you ever reached for me
at all.

my friend once said
i looked at you
the way girls in love are supposed to.
like you were a slow song
and i was swaying without thinking,
caught in something i didn’t even notice
was music.
she said it was obvious.
she laughed when she said it,
like it was sweet, like it was harmless.
and maybe it was.
to everyone but us.
because i think we knew
what it meant.
and we knew
what it could cost.
so we held our breath.

oh,
how cruel it is
that the world, not us,
not us —
got to see so clearly
what we were too scared to name.
they said you loved me.
i believed them.
until you left.
and then they said you didn’t.
i believed them then, too.

they rewrote the story
in real time,
as if love is just a rumor
waiting to be disproved.
as if they always knew
you’d never stay.
as if they warned me
and i didn’t listen.
they speak with such certainty now.
they speak like they know.

but they didn’t sit with me
on your porch steps,
bare knees touching,
when we both knew
i wasn’t shaking
just because of the cold.
they didn’t hear your breath hitch
when i said your name
like it was something i wanted
to keep safe in my mouth forever.
they didn’t see your hands tremble
as they hovered near mine,
not quite holding
but not quite letting go.
and when you rested your chin
against the top of my head,
your skin burning warm and your voice
nothing more than a ghost between us,
they weren’t there. they don’t know
that you whispered
nothing at all —
and we both understood
exactly what it meant.

they only saw
what we showed them:
your hand on my back,
my laugh too loud,
your gaze lingering.
they saw love,
easy as sunlight.
but we were shadows
hiding in doorways,
terrified of daylight.
we didn’t dare move.
didn’t dare speak.
in case it broke.
in case we did.

and when it did,
they shook their heads
like they’d always known
this was how it ended.
they said,
“he never loved you.”
they said,
“you made it up.”
they said,
“he was never that kind.”

and i nodded.
because what else could i do
but agree?
they weren’t wrong,
i told myself.
you left.
you left.
that was the truth, wasn’t it?
you never said love.
you never meant it about me.
not once. not ever.

but —
your fingers shook
when they laced through mine.
and your kiss tasted
like the kind of fear
you only feel
when you already know
you’re going to lose
something important.

i keep wondering
how love can be both so obvious
and invisible.
how it can look so real
from the outside
and still be something
we couldn’t hold on to.
how they could swear
we were in love when it was easy
and swear we weren’t
when it wasn’t.

their certainty sits like
a stone in my mouth.
flat.
heavy.
grinding against my teeth
until i forget what it felt like
to say your name
without bleeding.

but i remember the quiet.
the silence we built between us
like a wall
we both leaned on
but never climbed over.
i remember
what we didn’t say.
and how loud it got
when we almost did.

i think
we loved each other
more than they’ll ever understand.
or maybe we didn’t.
maybe we just played
at wanting
until we forgot
how to stop.

but after all this time,
there are still things
only you and i will ever know.
and maybe that’s
all it ever was.

i bought a new lighter yesterday.
shaped like a gun. a real one.
it fits in my palm the way your
hand used to.
i wonder
if you’d think it was cool,
the way you always did
when i showed you
things that sparked.
i tell myself,
it doesn’t matter.
i tell myself,
you wouldn’t care.
but when the flame flickers on,
my hand forgets to let go.
like maybe
i could keep something burning
just a little longer
this time.