Words That Stayed with Me

I won't promise perfection
but I'll always show up.
Not just when it's easy,
but when you're quiet,
when the room forgets you,
and your silence feels heavier than your words.

I'll remember how you take your tea,
the stories you skip,
the glance you give when something aches
but you're not ready to name it.

I don't want to guess.
Teach me.
Not because I don't care
but because I care enough
to want to get it right.

Show me the places you've hidden,
the doors you've locked,
the parts of you that flinch
when love stands too close.

I won't push.
I'll wait.
Wait until you offer me the key
not out of fear,
but because you trust I'll walk in gently.

I want to learn
the rhythm of your fears,
the weight behind your silence,
the thoughts you edit
before they reach your lips.

Tell me the stories
you've never told the whole way through.
Not so I can fix them,
but so I can hold them with you
tender, unjudging.

You don't have to bloom for me.
Just let me be the ground
soft enough,
safe enough,
still enough
for you to grow in.

I don't want to be perfect.
I want to be real
present, patient,
and kind.

So if you ever wonder
whether someone could love you
the way you need to be loved
I'm already here.

Ready to try,
to listen,
to stay.
And never stop
learning you.