You | Sreedhari Desai

You

You are never just “you” to me.
You are a drawer of mismatched keys;
somehow they all unlock my chest.

You are the supermarket fluorescent light
showing each crease and shadow in my face,
every small survival on my skin.
I wince at your honesty,
but you keep my outline true.

You are the chipped mug
I keep choosing over the pretty ones,
because tea cools slower in the things
I’m afraid to lose.

You are a browser tab I never close,
a song I stop halfway through
so it won’t end without me.

You are the bus I keep waiting for,
headed exactly where I need to go
but never arriving on time,
the hollow announcement on the platform—
“just around the corner”—
while my coffee goes cold
and I start to doubt the map.

You are the ache in my calves
after dancing alone in the kitchen,
proof that I was happy once,
and that I’m paying for it now.

You are the lavender soap that leaves me clean,
then disappears down the drain,
the eyebrow plucker that pricks my skin
but leaves me well-defined.

You are the fragrance I spray on in the morning,
starting strong, then thinning before the day is over,
and I’m still here, in the dark hallway,
wondering if your droplets
ever touched my skin.