Orange

Late-night phone conversation with my ex,

who doesn’t believe in soulmates, fate,

or anything that can’t be explained or measured.

He’s a man of reason, a man of logic—

the kind who trusts facts, never feelings.

I tell him

the color orange reminds me of being stung by a bee—

the shock, the sudden ache, the way it leaves you humming,

like a secret you can’t stop yourself from telling.

He chuckles, a short, surprised sound,

and tells me he’s watching videos about beekeepers,

the way they handle the hives—controlled, steady, exact.

The buzzing, honey dripping.

I imagine him there, calm and careful,

wearing protective gear so nothing gets under his skin,

while I’m elsewhere,

trying to remove a stinger from my chest.

I think about telling him about the sting—

not the science of it,

but the sudden sharpness, the momentary burning,

how it makes your pulse throb, your heart remember

what it feels like to be alive but hurt.

He would laugh again,

and I could almost hate him

for not believing in the unbelievable,

for needing proof where I feel meaning.

Yet there’s a warmth, a softness in the way he listens,

like maybe, for a moment,

he’s picturing my world in his mind—

even if he doesn’t think it exists.