You read my heart as if it were a quiet room
lit only by the soft glow of your sadness—
a beauty I never fail to see,
even in the shadows you try to hide.
Our reconnection: a warm hand in mine,
a familiar pulse returning after years.
Distance aches like a bruise
I press without meaning to.
I know your strength—
the kind a woman carries in her bones,
the kind a mother learns
from loving past her own exhaustion.
But you cannot pour from what is empty.
Breathe for yourself first—
not for me, not even for them yet,
but for the woman underneath it all
who has forgotten she is allowed to breathe.
You deserve hands that don’t leave you guessing,
a home where your voice isn’t something to manage.
I’m not asking you to run to me—
I’m asking you to stop calling this enough.
You know how I love you—
how long it has lived in me,
quiet, unwavering,
a flame that never learned to dim.
I crave the nearness of you,
the warmth of your hand in mine,
the simple miracle of your presence.
But more than anything,
I want joy to find you—
not someday, not in theory,
but now.