I gave you
half-full cups—
to you, overflowing.
I gave you
measured warmth.
Wrapped it in pretty,
promised it was real.
I called you
gentle
so I could become it.
You brought me morning,
the good kind,
and time I didn't earn.
You gave me home,
a stillness,
and hands that didn't ask.
I brought you mirrors.
You stayed.
I flinched.
I don’t wish to hurt you.
Only to leave gently,
and that is still
a kind of cruelty—
to be kind.
Even now,
I measure sweetness
in what we almost were.
And still—
My love,
I love
you, love,
not enough.
Apr 7, 2025
Apr 7, 2025 at 5:07 PM UTC
I gave you
half-full cups—
to you, overflowing.
I gave you
measured warmth.
Wrapped it in pretty,
promised it was real.
I called you
gentle
so I could become it.
You brought me morning,
the good kind,
and time I didn't earn.
You gave me home,
a stillness,
and hands that didn't ask.
I brought you mirrors.
You stayed.
I flinched.
I don’t wish to hurt you.
Only to leave gently,
and that is still
a kind of cruelty—
to be kind.
Even now,
I measure sweetness
in what we almost were.
And still—
My love,
I love
you, love,
not enough.
Drought—dressed as offering.
