A truth, finally.

I wanted you to come to me

without me unfolding the map first,

without me handing you the route,

without me making myself easy

to reach.

I wanted one reckless thing.

One

“Stay awake.

I’m on my way.”

Instead,

we sat inside the truth quietly

like two people holding a glass

neither wanted to drop.

And you listened.

God, you listened.

Which almost hurt worse.

Because now I can’t call you cruel.

Only human.

Only distant in the places

I keep starving in.

I think loneliness changes shape

when you finally say it out loud.

Before,

it lived in the drive home,

in the packed overnight bag,

in the ache of wanting to be chosen

without coordinating it first.

Now it lives here

on my porch,

in the blue hour,

in the space after honesty

where I am no longer pretending

I don’t need more.

And still,

ridiculously, tenderly,

I love you.

Still want your voice.

Still want your hands.

Still want to go to you

like my body doesn’t remember

every mile I carried alone.