The Way You Guard Me

 You never said

you were a shield.

But I’ve seen how your presence

moves like a windbreak—

not in front of me,

but just enough beside me

to soften the storm.

You say

“It’s not on you,”

as if you know the ache

of carrying too much blame—

and you’d rather hold the silence

than let it fall on me.

You never claim care

with grand gestures.

But I watch

how you shift the weight

when things grow heavy,

how your timing

is a kind of protection

I’m only now learning to name.

Even when you seem distant,

there’s a steadiness

in the way you don’t vanish.

Like a tree that doesn’t chase the birds—

but is always there

when they return.

Sometimes I wonder

if you pull away

to guard me from a version of you

you’re not ready to explain.

And still,

you offer more than you say—

in glances, in pauses,

in that quiet way

you let me matter.

And me?

I feel the care

in what’s unspoken.

I hear the shield

in your restraint.

And I carry it

like a soft woven thread

tied to my spine.

Maybe it’s not love

as the world names it—

but it’s something steady,

something still.

And that,

from you,

is everything.