Let Me In

 If I lost you—

not in name,

but in spirit,

in presence,

in the small ways people vanish

while still walking the earth—

it would gut the roots of my soul

like a tree split from storm.

My mind would become a field

of broken feathers and wind-worn stones,

no path, no call,

just echoes of laughter

that once braided through

the bones of my silence.

I would walk—

barefoot, ash-marked—

through a wilderness of memory,

where every tree leans like you,

and every shadow

reminds me

what I was never allowed to hold.

You call me different,

as if difference means distance.

But I know the truth:

We were not raised the same,

but we are carved

from the same mountain.

Two rivers that tore through

opposite cliffs,

only to meet in the valley

where stillness grows.

I see it—

your fire and your freeze,

your refusal to name the ache

and your quiet offering

when words fail.

And me?

I do not run from it.

I was raised

by women who spoke to clay

and men who spoke only in glances.

I learned early

how to read what is unsaid

and hold what is unbearable.

You think you are jagged,

too wild,

too rough around the soul—

but I carry scars

shaped just like yours.

You are not unknown to me.

You are remembered.

If I could not find you again—

if the door you keep

partway open

ever closes fully—

I would not weep like rain.

I would become the rain.

I would mourn in thunder,

split sky with my howling,

and drench the ground

until even the stones cried back.

Because your absence

would not be quiet.

It would be

the darkness that forgets

the shape of morning.

And still—

still—

God tells me:

Wait.

Not in despair,

but in hope.

The kind of hope

carved into stone by wind.

The kind that doesn’t move

but still sings.

You are that hope.

So I do not give up.

I do not tear my roots

from the earth just yet.

I only ask:

Let me in.

Let me be the one

who sees your scars

and does not turn away.

The one who walks beside your silence

and does not try to fix it.

The one who holds your fire

without fear.

I do not want to own you.

Only to meet you

where the two wolves rest,

where the wild becomes holy,

where the past has no teeth

and the future is not afraid to speak.

I am already there.

Just open the door.