I was taught to march,
to step in rhythm,
to follow the thread of hierarchy,
each stitch pulling tighter.

But she moves differently—
walking beside me,
not in line,
through fields where summer birds
scatter and reform,
their loose precision foreign
to my ordered heart.

Her love,
a weighted blanket
pulled over me,
a soft, strange warmth
that neither suffocates nor slips away.

She teaches me to rest
without growing restless,
to trust
without unraveling.
A comfort
that never bores me.

How is it that her hand,
light as butterfly wings,
can hold so much of me?

The cheat-code
to being free.

Thank you,
for the quiet cheer when
I was sent away
and they forgot
to come and get me.

For planting yourself beside me.
No promises,
only presence—
even with the pill
held in my hand
like a seed.

I think:
as you pay for the pizza,
are we meant to be?
And I know,
it doesn’t matter—
for your prayer
I’ll always speak.

”I can’t
not have you
in my life.”

-

Touché