If I am bare

I sat on my chair waiting for just a word from you.

Granting all that sits on my mind and heart.

Clearing the weights as I empty all into the air.

My mind races heartbeats as thunder within my veins.

I listen, I wait for those words to stand echoing inside my ears.

The actions to cover me with protection.

And as my breath lingers and stalls, I pray that you remain calm.

My mind is always on you and yet I don't dare give all of my answers to you.

I recognize that parts of me are odd and even different but I am patient.

You see, I care so much that not only does the bleed seep from me

but my feet feel bare, named upon soft sand.

And though I cannot understand all of what is between,

I still am willing to learn.

So I stay—

rooted not in silence,

but in restraint that aches like held breath.

You wouldn’t know it,

but each moment you don’t speak

becomes a stone in my pocket—

not heavy enough to drown me,

but enough to slow each step toward pretending I don’t feel.

I whisper truths into folded paper,

into shared air,

into rooms you may never enter.

Because I’d rather be near in spirit

than risk unraveling what we’ve barely begun to name.

Still—

even in this ache, I find quiet strength.

Not because I’m fearless,

but because I know the storm in me won’t destroy what’s meant to stand.

And maybe one day,

you’ll feel the echo of my waiting

not as pressure,

but as a place you always knew

was safe to return to.

Until then,

I’ll remain—

a prayer unspoken,

a truth wrapped in calm,

a presence that never rushes

what is still becoming.