i don’t write about you
as often as i used to.
i feel sorry about that.
you still make everything
feel like a love story.
even when my hands shake,
even when the days are heavy,
you hold me like the ending
could still be happy.

i love you in quieter ways now,
in glances, in waiting,
in letting myself stay.
and that matters more
than any poem ever could.
but still, i’ll try to write you one
anyway.