Still Here

I haven’t gone anywhere.

I’m still where the light slants in through the back porch screen

where we once sat,

your shoulder barely grazing mine,

both of us pretending not to notice

how comfort can feel like collision.

I don’t come bearing speeches,

just the quiet knowing

that healing doesn’t knock loud.

It arrives like dusk..

slow, blue-lidded, unapologetic.

Maybe you’re curled inside your own storm right now.

I won’t ask for updates.

I won’t pull at your shadows.

But I want you to know:

I saved your spot.

It’s the chair with the worn blanket.

It’s the second mug of tea I still brew out of habit.

It’s the breeze I let in, just in case you remember how it felt

to breathe around me.

I know the fire in you burns wild sometimes.

I’ve seen it lick the edges of your peace,

seen the way you carry shame like it was yours to shoulder alone.

But it doesn’t scare me.

None of it does.

You don’t have to explain

why you disappeared again.

I get it..

some days the silence is the only place soft enough to rest.

Still,

if you need a voice that doesn’t need anything back

if you need a place to drop the weight

without being asked to name it

I’m here

Not because I’m trying to fix you.

Not because I think you need saving.

But because once,

in a moment you may not even remember,

you looked at me like I was safe.

And I still am.

Come back when you’re ready.

Or don’t.

But know this:

there’s a part of me that stays open,

untouched,

warm..

still yours.