Though I can wrap my mind around it,
trace the shape of what you run from,
name your wounds before you do,
untangle your habits like thread—

Your weight…
You—
don’t need my palms to live.

Love was once built on burden.
On memory.
On carrying ghosts
as if they were gifts—
revering heaviness as holy.

But I’ve learned
to sit at the edge of an ache,
to feel it hum beside me
without reaching in—
to feel the weight
without wearing it.

I’ll let the ache stay yours.
If my silence echoes,
know it’s not for lack of feeling—
only shape.

I will not bleed
to prove I see you.