I knew how to leave
before I ever learned how to stay—
my heart raised on exit signs,
on doors half-open,
on the quiet art of disappearing.
and then there was you—
not loud, not demanding,
just… certain,
like light that doesn’t ask permission
to be believed.
loving you felt like stepping into still water
and realizing I wasn’t drowning—
just finally held.
but instinct is a stubborn ghost.
it tugged at my sleeves,
whispered run before you’re ruined,
drew maps back to loneliness
and called them safety.
so I became a battlefield—
half of me reaching for your hand,
the other already letting go,
a war between memory and miracle,
between what hurt me
and what could heal me.
you never pulled,
never chased the fleeing parts of me—
you just stayed,
steady as truth,
soft as something sacred
I didn’t yet know how to keep.
and that’s what undid me—
not force, not fire,
but your patience,
your quiet refusal
to make love feel like survival.
somewhere between my fear
and your unwavering presence,
I started choosing you—
not all at once,
but in trembling, stubborn pieces.
I chose to linger,
to trust the way your name
felt like peace in my mouth,
to believe that love
didn’t have to be chased or escaped—
it could simply be received.
and in that fragile surrender,
I understood something terrifying and true:
you were the one—
not because you completed me,
but because with you
I no longer felt the need to run.
Apr 28
Apr 28, 2026 at 6:07 PM UTC
I knew how to leave
before I ever learned how to stay—
my heart raised on exit signs,
on doors half-open,
on the quiet art of disappearing.
and then there was you—
not loud, not demanding,
just… certain,
like light that doesn’t ask permission
to be believed.
loving you felt like stepping into still water
and realizing I wasn’t drowning—
just finally held.
but instinct is a stubborn ghost.
it tugged at my sleeves,
whispered run before you’re ruined,
drew maps back to loneliness
and called them safety.
so I became a battlefield—
half of me reaching for your hand,
the other already letting go,
a war between memory and miracle,
between what hurt me
and what could heal me.
you never pulled,
never chased the fleeing parts of me—
you just stayed,
steady as truth,
soft as something sacred
I didn’t yet know how to keep.
and that’s what undid me—
not force, not fire,
but your patience,
your quiet refusal
to make love feel like survival.
somewhere between my fear
and your unwavering presence,
I started choosing you—
not all at once,
but in trembling, stubborn pieces.
I chose to linger,
to trust the way your name
felt like peace in my mouth,
to believe that love
didn’t have to be chased or escaped—
it could simply be received.
and in that fragile surrender,
I understood something terrifying and true:
you were the one—
not because you completed me,
but because with you
I no longer felt the need to run.
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