You and I

Beyond me, in a space I can’t be, You are. Tell me what you feel right now. Does your mind consider and contemplate? Is your blue my orange, and my orange your red?

Inverse Flowers (2023) by Kuffy Eyo

Beyond me, in a space I can’t be, You are. 

Tell me what you feel right now. Does your mind consider and contemplate? Talk to me about colors, sounds, and odors. Is your blue my orange, and my orange your red? What color would I call the sky if I saw with your eyes? Can your joys and sadness traverse the miles like mine? I’m inclined to assume they are paper thin, a passing thing, and I’m back to being engrossed in me.

When I can, I obsess over your thoughts, of course, only on the ones of me. 

I’m convinced you sensed the awkwardness in my hug, heard the slip from my lip, and scoffed at the cast-offs on my feet. Still, I realize I can’t be me to you because if you were I, then you would be dwelling on my thoughts of you. Did I notice your unwashed hair, the chipped polish on your finger, and the linger of your palm on mine.

In more moments than I want to admit, I conclude you are counterfeit and that your actions have as much motivation as an extra on a movie set. 

You did it because you hate me, because you are stupid, an asshole, an insensitive prick. You did it because you’re perfect, a woman, I know you did it because I was too kind. 

You know there’s one of me and billions of you. 

I did it because my mother was barely around, because my dad died when I was five, because society conditioned me to defer. Do you even care that I was hungry, had a long day, couldn’t sleep last night, and was in the middle of a difficult affair? Why wouldn’t I do it when you were being such an asshole. 

I wish you’d be me so you’d understand why I ghosted you and couldn’t stop at the post to pick up your parcel. You’re so ungrateful. You’re so beautiful. Unlike me, whose eyes are too wide apart, teeth too crooked. If I were you, you would love me, and I’d dress, talk, walk, and be better. You know I’m a bitch with no friends who everyone thinks is insane. 

Often, I watch you go, crowded streets, cars honking, brake lights dashing. Where do you sleep? Why are you here? Are your stories as vivid as mine? 

Often, I talk with you, as I barely listen, mostly in my head. Your day does not concern me, your opinions are bigoted. I interject, try to convince you, make you stand where I am on the subject, but there’s distance, there’s difference, there’s you and I.

Seldom, I find a you that seems like me, and it’s refreshing how well you speak my language, then time reveals that it’s a distinct dialect. We try to drown it out with kisses, I miss yous, promises of eternity as bodies fuse, but there’s distance, there’s difference, there’s you and I.

I know you’ll never see with these eyes, listen with these ears, or feel with this heart. In this lifetime, finite and separate, we remain as our perceptions contradict and conflict, but I try, and I expect you do. To reach across the space and coalesce, to discover that you am I. 

You hope I understand that my truth is subjective, subject to the assumptions of interpretation. I hope you know neither you nor I own a monopoly on reality but can share perspectives to compose compromise. With this agreement and absolute empathy, we can evoke the memory of you as I.

Connecting with Kuffy Eyo, every Sunday by 10 a.m.
Like, Share, Subscribe.

---