I’m blind.
The dumbest alive.

A kid that kicks your shins in the playground
but still needs love.
A dog that chews your new shoes,
spits the leather from the sole,
but still needs you to have a heart,
to scratch behind the ears.

I fucked up.

But I still need you.
The way the world needs color,
the way the tide crawls back to shore
no matter how many times it’s been turned away.

What do I have to do
to make you smile again?
To take the tension from your shoulders,
to put softness back in your goodnights.

How do I prove to you
this isn’t something that falters?
I’m not a wandering soul,
or a firework that burns out in the driveway,
but something acniet, something stubborn—
something that sits in the marrow of me
and won’t move.

It isn’t shared with any living soul,
not now, not ever,
even if tiny eyes may ask to borrow it someday.

It hurts—when you say,
If it ended, I wouldn’t be surprised,
like you never thought
this had a chance.

Like we were a cheap bet,
something you put five dollars on,
half-laughing, half-knowing
you were about to lose.

And still, there are moments—
something beautiful,
more than bliss.

When you stop me on the staircase,
when you tell me you love me
with the weight of the stars,
questions of science,
your love flickering
like a ghost clinging to a world it once knew.

After our roulette love, you whispered,
“If we were to be together, wouldn’t you want more time?”
as if this thing between us isn’t timeless.
As if I wouldn’t stretch every second,
every touch,
every breath we share
into something worth writing about.

Why shoot me with words like “if”?
Why name the faceless clocks,
that tick between the silence,
why give them meaning,
or let them march between us?

I want to turn every “if”
into a warm bath,
a blanket to soothe you.

For every split hair of worry,
I want to give you a sunrise,
a nightfall, a city,
a summer, a fall, a song,
and a tattoo.

I can still be the rain
collecting on your windowsill
as you drift off to sleep.
I was made for you, darling,
and that’s not coincidence.

But in the morning, an apologetic text sits cute—
because there is still something unsaid.
The thing that makes you cry on the ride home,
that makes your eye twitch
at the mention of a name.

I want to grab you,
to shake you,
to kiss you so hard you forget
what it felt like to doubt this.

You’ve already won, darling.
You’ve already won.

Yet you are still tired.

And I can’t change the dates,
or fated,
but that won’t stop me from trying.

I pray this all lifts
with the soft arms of spring,
when you realize—it’s yes, always yes,
forever yes.

And you—
you are still my great love.