When I first came out as asexual to my now ex-lover, he took it personally. When the streetlights dimmed, I could hear the birds fall out of love in unison. When it poured outside, I could hear the tectonic plates shiver, I could hear music, too. But it sounded more like the music when the Titanic went down. When I loved, I circled and rooted, I was covered from top to bottom in paint. My legs are solid and my arms relentless, I knee-weak, I falter. I name the ways I love you hoping you'd understand — I love you like sunshine, I love you like the countless prayers whispered into the summer air, I love you the way a child loves, I love you the way blue and yellow make green. My English teacher in high-school said there is no one way of saying a name. So I spell my name love. I call myself all colours of jade. I call myself after the first bloom of the season, after ruins of ruins, I call myself a garden. When I first came out as asexual to my now ex-lover, he didn't take it well. I could have been a hundred different seasons suspended mid-air but I kept muttering I'm sorry I'm sorry it's not you, it's me. I kept reciting an apology like a song replaying over vinyl. I don’t know why I apologized, there was nothing for me to be sorry about. I kept my arms folded and my legs crossed. I looked for myself and found a bouquet of sunflowers instead, so naturally I kept it, I found myself where you left.