You smiled like I was worth the wait- or the lie. Couldn’t tell. You left the kitchen light on too long. I stepped inside. The floor gave way.
I slept beside you as a thief -quiet, not for comfort- but for the hush that comes when no one asks what you’ve done.
Your shoulder held the part of me that still wanted to be forgiven. I kissed you like confession with no priest, no promise, just heat and teeth.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask what made me this way. Didn’t try to fix it.
I’ve burned names like receipts. I’ve swallowed shame like spit. Walked out of too many mornings with hands that still remember who they touched and didn’t deserve.
But you- you just set a cup beside the bed. No questions. No sermon. Just water. Just presence. Just mercy, without the bow. I drank the quiet. It didn’t heal me, but it stayed.
And when you sang- not loud, just soft enough to hold the air. you said my name like it was still mine. Like it wasn’t something I’d dropped on purpose. Like it could come back.