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Me:  Single, biracial female, 31, tired of people who say, “But you don’t look biracial,” and wait for me to say, “Thank you.”

You: The judgment-free listener when I need to talk about the kids on the playground who called me a black nigger.  You will understand the moments when I misconstrue every comment about my skin color.  You will know to treat me no differently than you would a white, black, Asian, Hispanic, Greek girlfriend, but you will also be the person to pedestal me when I need a boost.

Me: The excited murmur that water makes immediately before it begins to boil, the full-figured line of zeros that come after the decimal but before the one in the number that defines the category I slide into.  Me: Café au lait in search of a novelty mug, the color of caramel candy.  Me: Scorpio with Pisces rising.

You: Yang to my yin, pressed close in the dark and smoke of a jazz club on a Saturday night, the low tones of fusion, cumulus cloud to my Sahara-brown land, an earth sign to ground my water.  You: Deliriously sweet as rich cream, the white skip mark down the middle of my blacktop.

Me: A scale, a bass clef, a single unwavering note, a soloist’s thrumming heartbeat.

You: A conductor poised with baton in the air, the breathtaking moment of silence before the audience explodes in applause.  You: parchment waiting for my symphony.

Me: Waiting for you to find me.  Me: Realizing I need to leap to truly be a great catch.

You: Are somewhere out there.  You: Are necessary.  You: Are not your age, race, ethnicity, body, education, bank account or employment status.  You: Superglue fingertips when I shatter like wedding china.