You told me you didn't like the way I stared for so long at sunsets. Almost as though you didn't want me to fall in love with something that was leaving. What you never considered was that the most comforting thing about watching it leave was the knowing that it would come back even more beautifully at dawn. You told me you didn't like the way my cheeks shook when I laughed, so I began laughing less passionately. You told me you didn't like the way I bit my bottom lip when I was deep in thought, so I stopped getting lost in my own head. You told me you didn't like the way I whistled while making the bed in the morning, so my morning tune got silenced. You told me, you didn't like the way my voice shook when I told you how much I love you. So I began saying less often. I did all this, to make you love me more. I did all this because I wanted to be the reason that you didn't leave; I know you've spent your whole life running. I wanted to be the home you couldn't find yourself getting away from. I was clay in your hands and you moulded me into everything that I've never been. I wish I would have been enough for you to come home to. I wish that my kiss felt as welcoming as the front door mat. I wanted to be everything that I'm not for you, but I just needed you to keep me.