If I could hand you this ache,
I think you’d hold it gently -
not to fix it,
but to understand where it’s been.
There’s something about you ~
the way your words soften the sharpness in me,
like you’ve met all my ghosts
and chose to stay anyway.
When you speak,
it feels like silence is being seen.
Like I don’t have to earn softness
or shrink my storm to be held.
I don’t know what this is:
this thread between us,
quiet but impossible to ignore.
I just know
I don’t want to pull away from it.
There’s a kind of home in your presence;
not a place I move into,
but a place I remember
from long before I knew
what it meant to be known.
So if I seem hesitant,
or too full of questions.
know it’s not doubt,
it’s depth.
I don’t want a half-story with you.
I want every page
even the ones we haven’t written yet.
And maybe that’s what this is:
not a confession,
not a request;
just a quiet truth
finally making its way to light.
This isn’t a love poem, not exactly. It’s what happens when you feel deeply seen by someone — not because you explained yourself, but because they met you in the quiet. It’s a kind of intimacy that doesn’t ask for proof or permission. Just presence. I don’t write things like this often, but this one asked to be said.
