The Wild In You

 You come to me like weather—

sometimes sun-warmed stillness,

sometimes the crack of a coming storm.

Not cruel, just untamed,

as if even you

are surprised by the wind

you carry.

You never hide the wild parts.

You let them out

like coyotes howling past dusk,

their cries raw and untrimmed,

warning and welcome

in the same breath.

And me?

I listen.

Not to tame,

but to understand

what the fire means

when it chooses not to burn me.

You speak in truths that sting,

like frost that kisses leaves before winter,

honest enough to break things

but soft enough to let me know

you didn’t want to.

There are no promises.

Only the tension

between wanting and restraint—

the moment before a hawk dives,

the ripple before a fish rises.

You map out the world

as if you’re tracing it for two—

trails you’d walk, rivers you’d ford,

quiet inns with tea and no clocks.

As if you’ve seen the paths

we might take

but you won’t admit

you’ve circled them in red.

I pretend not to see it.

You pretend I haven’t.

But we both know

the way your voice softens

when you forget to guard it.

The way your silence stretches

when closeness gets too close.

You carry love

like an ember in your pocket—

not for display,

but to keep something warm

just in case the cold comes again.

And I?

I am no fool.

I see the care you plant

and bury,

the roots you hope I never find.

Still, I feel them

beneath every step I take

toward you.