There is a difference in the blade—
the one built to sever,
and the one shaped to carve.
I have held both in my hands,
mistaking sharpness for care,
learning late that not all wounds
are necessary.
There is someone, I hope,
who sees through smoke-thick longing,
who hears my plans unraveled
not to criticize their shape
but to anchor their weight,
to measure them against the tide
instead of the moonlight.
I want someone who understands
the way truth balances on the tongue,
not as a trembling accusation,
not as a weapon to wield
for their own clean reflection,
but a gift they place in my lap:
warm, deliberate, heavy,
and meant to last.