I needed something, I wasn’t sure what, but I asked you over and over again for it. You pawed around the stuff in our apartment, guessing, presenting me first with the small tip of a mostly melted candle. I rolled it around in my palm for a moment, the beeswax sticking beneath my nails, before I decided, no, it’s not what I need. So you brought me other things, a dead AAA battery from the smoke alarm we don’t use, a piece of rotting hardwood you stripped from your porch deck, I put my fingers in the wormholes, but already I knew these are not the things I need. Frustrated, you shake your head, leave the room, and stop trying. Occasionally, now, you bring me a drill bit, or a dried piece of mint from your garden, and I thank you, kiss you, and pretend these were the things I asked for all along.
You needed nothing, so every morning, when we woke up, I would bring you a small glass jam jar filled with air. ‘Thanks for nothing,’ you’d whisper, wrapping your hands around the glass. ‘You’re welcome,’ I’d reply, curling up next to you in the morning light.