You don’t know me yet.
But I’ve been circling,
searching for a place where the noise goes quiet,
where the world slows down enough
for me to breathe again.
You stand here—
fresh, unscarred,
waiting for someone to fill you
with laughter, with late-night arguments,
with the weight of real life.
I wonder if you know
how heavy a man’s heart can be
when he finally walks through a door
he wants to stay behind.
Your walls are blank,
but I see pictures already.
Daughters running through the hall,
muddy shoes in the entry,
a dog asleep by the back door,
and me—tired, but steady—
finally stopping long enough
to call something mine.
You are just wood and stone,
but you could be more—
a shelter not just from storms in the sky,
but storms inside a man.
So I look at you,
and I ask the only thing I know how:
Will you hold me,
if I decide I’m ready to stay?