Loving you is like standing
Outside a house at dusk,
Watching lights flicker
In windows that never fully open.
Sometimes you look at me
Like you are almost home.
Like there is a language inside you
Trying to become real.
But then you turn away,
Confused by your own silence.
I think the hardest thing
About loving someone uncertain
Is that they give you fragments
Without meaning to.
A softer voice.
A longer stare.
Hands that linger half a second too long.
Tiny mercies
That grow into unbearable hope.
You hold my heart
Like someone holding a letter
Written in a language they cannot read.
You know it matters.
You just do not know what it says.
And I cannot blame you for that.
Maybe some people are taught
To fear the depth of their own feelings.
Maybe love arrived in your chest
So quietly
You mistook it for friendship.
Maybe you are still searching yourself
For the courage to name what is there.
So I stay here—
Not waiting,
But becoming familiar
With the ache of unfinished things.
Because loving you has taught me
That uncertainty is its own kind of grief.
Not the grief of losing someone,
But the grief of standing close enough
To touch what could become love
And never knowing
If it will choose to exist.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 9:19 PM UTC
Loving you is like standing
Outside a house at dusk,
Watching lights flicker
In windows that never fully open.
Sometimes you look at me
Like you are almost home.
Like there is a language inside you
Trying to become real.
But then you turn away,
Confused by your own silence.
I think the hardest thing
About loving someone uncertain
Is that they give you fragments
Without meaning to.
A softer voice.
A longer stare.
Hands that linger half a second too long.
Tiny mercies
That grow into unbearable hope.
You hold my heart
Like someone holding a letter
Written in a language they cannot read.
You know it matters.
You just do not know what it says.
And I cannot blame you for that.
Maybe some people are taught
To fear the depth of their own feelings.
Maybe love arrived in your chest
So quietly
You mistook it for friendship.
Maybe you are still searching yourself
For the courage to name what is there.
So I stay here—
Not waiting,
But becoming familiar
With the ache of unfinished things.
Because loving you has taught me
That uncertainty is its own kind of grief.
Not the grief of losing someone,
But the grief of standing close enough
To touch what could become love
And never knowing
If it will choose to exist.
