You

I’m jealous of a lot of things when it comes to you, you see. I’m jealous of the moon, because she knows all of your secrets, fears, and early morning confessions that you spill to her when you think no one else will listen. I’m jealous of her mostly because she gets to see you at your most vulnerable, when you are you.

I’m jealous of your sheets; they get to touch every part of you as you fall asleep during your nightly confessions with the moon. They caress and hold you as they catch the tears that escape your silver dollar eyes, and I envy them. As they do this, I sit in my own bed and stare wistfully at the same moon you cry out to, wishing she’d reveal the things you utter softly to her, glaring at the empty place in my bed. Feeling how cold the other pillow is, wishing your body were there to give it warmth, to weigh down the other side of the bed.

I am most jealous, however, of the sun. The moon goes away as you finally close your eyes and rest, but the sun, he comes up just in time to see you when you’re the most beautiful. While you dream of a better time and place, he creeps up slowly and his rays peer into your window, spilling through and dancing up to kiss your face. He sees you before you have time to clean your mascara stained cheeks, before you have time to put your wall back up, before you have time to put on a stony stare. He sees you when you don’t realize how beautiful you truly are.

I am jealous of the moon, your sheets, and the sun. I am jealous of them because they know all of you, and you let them see who you really are. I can only hope that someday, I can be the sun and the moon to you as well as be the sheets that brush against your skin as you writhe in the pain you put yourself because you don’t see what I see.

You don’t see what the moon sees.

You don’t see what the sun sees.

You don’t see what I want to so desperately see for myself.

You don’t see how beautiful you are.

You don’t see you.