I’ll kiss your forehead
and ask what your mother never gave you emotionally
and what your father taught you about love
by never showing up.
I’ll flirt with you,
then casually say, “I don’t think you ever felt safe in your own home.”
I’ll trace your collarbone
and ask if you’ve ever felt truly chosen.
I’ll tell you I like your laugh,
then ask why it always sounds like you’re hiding something.
I’ll make you dinner,
then ask why love feels like debt to you.
I’ll hold your hand in silence
until you realize I’m the first person who ever listened that way.
I’ll kiss you slow,
then ask what version of yourself you think is most lovable.
I’ll compliment your playlist,
then ask why you only express sadness through songs.
I’ll wear your hoodie,
then ask if you associate safety with performance.
I’ll say “I missed you,”
then ask if anyone ever taught you
how to receive love without guilt.
I’ll laugh with you in the kitchen,
kiss your shoulder,
and ask who taught you that love had to be earned.
I’ll say “you’re safe here,”
and mean it
even if you’re not staying.
I wasn’t the storm.
I was the still water that showed you
your reflection.
I was the one who noticed you were already bleeding
and kissed the wound too gently to leave a scar.
And if you miss me,
you’re really just missing the version of yourself
that felt loved in my light.
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: claudia lam On Unsplash
