(A poem about love that no longer asks – only remains.)
I don’t expect your love.
Expectation is a door
I’ve stopped checking.
But what I feel
remains available,
not as a plea,
but as a place –
a room I no longer wait in,
yet still keep warm.
There was a time
when affection meant
leaning forward,
hoping for symmetry.
Now it means
standing upright,
letting the world
tilt as it must.
Love, for me,
is no longer a transaction.
No ledger,
no return on investment,
no quiet hunger
for mirrored emotion.
It’s simply presence –
steady,
unforced,
unpolished in the best way.
A resource,
not a request.
If you ever need it,
you’ll find it intact.
But I won’t hold the door,
won’t wait in the hallway,
won’t measure myself
against your absence.
I’ve learned to live
in rooms with windows,
not thresholds.
And still –
the warmth remains.