You don't
have to flinch—
the branch
that bends
won't break
from a wind
that means
no harm.

Fear
is bark
that peels
without
a wound—
as if
no one
could offer
a soft cover
for you.

Love
isn't a task—
it’s shade
when you
feel bare—
it's the quiet
that stays
when you
don't ask.

We often say
nothing but stay.

A spark
on chill days
when the power
ran out
the quiet
beside the ache—

No fixing
no fleeing
just being
a warmth
that lasts.

I don't know what to call it—
there’s no labels on our jars
just the taste of feeling safe
when the world forgets
to be kind—
in silence
in tears
in the act of terrible singing
and to let each other be
without fixing—
like two cool cats
napping on opposite windowsills—
both catching light
without stealing it.

I don't ask
why you need to be quiet
whether happy or sad—
and you don't ask
why I stay up to see the sunrise
or why I stay up late
talking to the moon.

We don’t measure what this is—
we just make room
for each other's storms
place our phones on the counter
and mean it
when we take time
for each other.

You know
when I need a loud no.
I know when you need
a soft it's okay
and I never follow you
into storms
you choose to weather alone.

I never knock too loudly—
just wait
on the porch of your quiet
hands in my pockets
not asking you to hurry.

This—whatever it is—
feels like a home.

Suicide is hard work—
it’s building a house
out of invisible bricks
then blaming yourself
for the wind.

The leaving is easy—
you leave behind
an empty bag
made out of all the things
they should have said
should have helped with
should have known better
and do something about.

Someone finds the bag—
hangs on to it
thinks it’s their fault
the bag is so empty—
thinks if they had been better
louder or quieter
tried to be more open
not hold back
been more like a door
than a thick wall.

They carry it anyway—
this sad sack of maybes
and might-have-beens—
like it’s a map to a place
they can never find—
but it’s not
it’s just a bag—
a miserable empty bag.

You no longer believe in the media
because you know that they have all lied to you
and word of mouth cannot be relied upon
so
what to do if you want something new
untainted
vaccinated or unvaccinated?

and this is what I've waited for
since nineteen fifty-six?

thank god it wasn't fifty-four
or
you might have thought
that this was a poem.