Anchor in the Storm

I have known love before—

love that burned too bright,

love that left me hollow,

love that taught me to run before I could be abandoned.

But then there was you.

Not a wildfire, not a tidal wave,

but a steady flame, a quiet sea,

something real enough to hold without fear of it vanishing.

You see me—raw, unguarded,

wounded in places I rarely let light touch.

And instead of turning away,

you stay.

You listen.

You let me unravel, then remind me

I don’t have to weave myself back alone.

You hold my hurt with careful hands,

never flinching, never casting blame.

You are the first to show me

that love does not have to be sharp,

that apologies can be given without defense,

that softness is not a weakness but a choice.

And though we move carefully,

though fear lingers like a ghost in the doorway,

I have never felt safer

than in the quiet spaces between us—

where words aren’t needed,

where just being is enough.

You are my anchor in the storm,

and for the first time in my life,

I don’t want to drift away.