You wake with petals in your hair
and sleep still clinging to your lashes
not the sleep of peace,
but the hush that follows weeping,
when the heart forgets its own weight.

I don’t ask what ghosts kept you
tossing through the hours.
I don’t name the pain
stitched in the arch of your back.
You’ve built your grace from ruin–
I’ve learned to admire the architecture.

Tonight, I won’t touch your wounds.
I’ll touch the skin around them,
where the light still gathers
when you breathe without defense.

Tell me–
is it love
if I hold you
like I’m not afraid of breaking,
like your shaking
is just music I haven’t learned yet?

You speak like someone
who’s forgotten how to be held
without preparing for departure.

That’s alright.
I don’t need your trust in full bloom.
Just the seed.
Just the breath you give me
before the sentence ends.

Your fingers curl
as if expecting to be pried away–
but I stay.
No bargains. No salvation.
Just warmth,
and the promise not to name this rescue.

I smile.
I’ve seen braver women
fall apart for lesser reasons.

So when your mask slips,
when the tiredness wins
and the strong part of you
asks to rest–

remember this:

Not the way I touched you
but the way I listened,
how I stayed quiet enough
for your silence to speak.

Not for mercy,
not to save,
but because I wanted
to be the first place
you didn’t have to fight.