I loved a Nigerian lesbian

Maybe she was just a girl who loved me.

She laughed like rain on tin roofs, beautiful, biting and I, I was cool water in the sun spilling.

Or maybe I just loved a girl in the dark,

because daylight was too loud for what we were.

I thought my love would be enough.

But I was wrong.

Too calm.

Too cool.

Too afraid to hold her with both hands when it mattered.

I dream of her sometimes.

The way she whispered my name like it meant something sacred,

the way my hands learned her before she had the language to.

She held my face like it was breakable.

She whispered, “You make it easy to breathe.”

But I made it too easy to leave.

So she left.

For a man.

A tall, loud thing who calls her baby

and posts her in his stories.

She says she’s happy now.

He makes her feel safe, treats her right, he’s serious about her and this, is the real thing.

She says she’s done with “confusion.”

And I sit with that.

Like a question mark on fire.

I wonder,

when he climbs into her,

does she close her eyes?

Does she brace when he pushes in?

Does she see me?

Does she remember our breath syncing?

Or has she scrubbed it clean?

Does she arch the same,

or flinch when he moans too loud,

touches too rough,

eyes too certain?

Like my bones don’t ache at the thought of these things .

Was she ever truly a lesbian?

Was I just a phase she had to name to erase?

Maybe she chose this man,

this life that fits into wedding halls

and Christmas cards,

over the chaos of loving me.

And still,

I wonder what she had to bury to get there.

I wonder if she’ll ever dig it back up.