i watch the faithful kneel,
  their eyes soft with trust,
  like they’ve found the answer
  to everything.
  i search for that peace.
a cross resting
  close to their chest,
  as if God lives right there,
  in the space beneath their ribs.

i wonder;
could i hold
a god in my heart
the way they do? —
strong, unshaken,
a savior,
to hold me,
when i forget how to stand.

i wonder if the light
they pray to
could ever find its way
    through the darkness
       of my sinful heart.
maybe one day.

the storm came,
it always does.
but you—
you were the anchor.
    you kept me from sinking,
      from pulling into the depths
       of my own turmoil.

                       sometimes, i float
                 in the noise of everything,
             but i always come back to you.
         your stillness pulls me in,
      like the tide always pulls
         the shore.

i had never known
how integral silence could be
until you made it feel safe.
how steady peace could be,
how the weight of your presence,
tethers me to the surface,
  keeping me from
    floating away
      and losing myself
         in the storm

she's here,
   in the photograph on my desk,
but not here at all.
   she's there with me
   frozen in a moment
   before it all slipped away.

i trail
   my fingers
      over the glass,

and wonder if it was ever real.
the way we were,
   before the knife went in.
   before she twisted it
   and let me bleed out
   instead of offering
   a hand.

i can’t shake the feeling
      that she’s still here,
             though she never will be again.

you leaned over
your sleeve brushing mine.
the lanyard hung from your neck,
your shirt a little too neat.
   mine untucked;
      a little too messy.

red ink
   trailing
from your pen
to my paper,
marking it carefully.

it shifted
so i pressed my hand down,
close to yours,
close enough.

you kept writing.
i kept still.
we said nothing.
but the silence
felt full,
closer than touch.

you’re the calm in my chaos,
the steady in my storm.

words from you
feel earned

you don’t flood me with noise
but when you speak
each word carries weight
given carefully,
never lightly.

the moment
i’m asked
i say yes
because i can,
not because i want to;
but because
i have a choice,
  and at least
    this way
      i get to choose
        what happens,
          rather than be
            put in a position
              where i don’t.

i don’t want what’s handed to me.
i want what runs.
what looks at me then
looks away.
what i have to earn.

because wanting hurts less
than being handed something that never mattered.

attention means more
   when i have to work for it.
affection feels real
   when it’s rare.

i don’t want easy.
  i want to chase.
  i want to ache.
  i want to reach
and never quite touch.

because longing is safer
than pretending to be satisfied.

it’s easier to keep chasing
when you know the prize isn’t promised;
and you have to work
to even get close.

because chasing
    something real
feels better than
    catching something hollow.