To reach a child, you kneel-
not with your eyes alone,
with your spine and pride too,
till your shadow become a shelter.

She pushed me, fists like failed words,
all the anger in her eyes, a language
for all she couldn't give words to.
I bit back lectures, giving way to silence.

And I let it speak:
"𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑓𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒".

Through it, echoed the words,
apologizing for an err not mine,
melting her anger like frost at dawn,
like a breath held too long, released.

That's when I knew,
this is how I loved you,
not by fixing, but standing guard,
at the door of your wounds.

But some storms only end
when the sky drowns itself.
Now I kneel alone, repeating my apology,
to the air, to the child in you,
to the silence that took you away.