You know? Today I started crying out of nowhere.
Lying in bed, phone in hand, photo gallery open,
and a picture you once took of me, distracted,
where I swear to heaven, I look terrible.

The tears slid endlessly down my cheeks
and fell onto my bare chest,
knocking at the door of my heart,
asking to be let in to clean a little of the dirt
left by the footsteps of an old love—
if it can even be called love.

I tried to stop them, but they were insistent, relentless, burning, enveloping.
And the worst part is, that list of words isn’t meant to describe pain,
but to show you how much they… how much you make me feel.

The last time I wrote about love…
No, I’m sorry.
The last time I wrote about what I thought was love,
I did it with tears in my eyes—just like now—
but those tears were crushing, piercing, devouring.
They didn’t knock at the door to clean; they barged in, ready to drown.
I guess that makes it seem like I’ve never really known what love is.

But looking at that photo in my gallery, for a moment I thought
that for the first time, I could see.
I could feel, I could believe.
For the first time I was close to understanding love—
to drinking it, to savoring it, to living it.

Do you know why I cried?
I cried because I saw myself in you.
I saw myself through your eyes and I was beautiful.
I was funny, I was smart,
I was a glass of water to a man who had lived his whole life thirsty.
I was me, in all my splendor.
And I have never been splendid.
But for you, splendid is a word too small.

And I hate to tell myself this,
but I’m about to believe you.
I’m about to believe that I deserve to be loved the way you love me,
that I deserve to be listened, no matter what I speak of,
that I deserve to walk on flowers and fresh grass
and stop dragging my feet across a road of broken plates,
that I deserve more than the cold blade of despair.
That I deserve you.

But it scares me so much to believe.
It scares me to open my palm and receive without trembling,
to fear that one day you’ll wake up and decide I’m not enough,
to fear that this too will turn to dust in my hands
and I’ll walk on splinters again instead of petals.
It scares me that my heart won’t know how to hold
what it has always asked for.

And yet here I am, with open hands.
Willing to let you see me and name me without masks,
to let your eyes rebuild me with every glance,
to walk without fearing that my steps will be heard,
to stop being afraid of love,
and to believe, even trembling,
that this time, at last, love belongs to me.