He Saw Himself in Numbers

He saw himself in numbers, statistics, facts, logic. He saw himself in numbers that toyed with his mind.

The IQ emblazoned across his forehead didn’t tell of the eloquent nature of his thoughts.

The vocabulary count written on his lips didn’t mention the convivial nature of his lay.

The measures of his shoulders, muscles, waist circumfrence, were ignorant of his frame’s skinny beauty.

The anxious number written across his weathered worry-finger said nothing of the friends and family he worried for.

He saw himself in numbers. That is true, and only logical; numbers cannot lie but they are not the only logical explanation.

Or perhaps, simple logic is not the only explanation, For I saw him, in

the creases round his eyes that showed how many times he smiled and how he stared at the sun even though it hurt.

I saw him in the geraniums by my house because he forgot to buy me flowers once so he picked them, all special, and my mum was so mad.

I saw him as his hair, floppy, messy, black, a crow’s nest that was surprisingly soft.

I’d hoped that he’d forget the numbers. I really, truly did. But they subsumed him into facts, The figures, the abyss.